moisture from the sea spread from the nearest surf edge, herald of the
turning tide. Miss Van Tuyn raised her arms, shook them, cried out with
all her force. And the gulls rose, easily, strongly, and flew insolently
towards their element.

"Let us turn!" she said.

"All right!"

Those were the first words they had spoken.

"Let us go and sit down in a sand-bank and see the twilight come."

"Yes."

They sat down presently among the spear-like blades of the spiky grass,
facing the tides and the evening sky, and Craven, with some difficulty,
lit his pipe and persuaded it to draw, while she looked at his
long-fingered brown hands.

"I couldn't sit here with some people I know," she said. "Desolation
like this needs the right companion. Isn't it odd how some people are
only for certain places?"

"And I suppose _the_ one person is for all places."

"Do you feel at home with me here?" she asked him, rather abruptly and
with a searching look at him.

"Yes, quite--since our game. A good game is a link, isn't it?"

"For bodies."

"Well, that means a good deal. We live in the body."

"Some people marry through games, or hunting. They're the bodily people.
Others marry through the arts. Music pulls them together, or painting,
or literature. They are mental."

"Bodies--minds! And what about hearts?" asked Craven.

"The tide's coming in. Hearts? They work in mystery, I believe. I expect
when you love someone who hasn't a taste in common with you your heart
must be hard at work. Perhaps it is only opposites who can really love,
those who don't understand why. If you understand why you are on the
ground, you have no need of wings. Have you ever been afraid of anyone?"

Craven looked at her with a dawning of surprise.

"Do you mean of a German soldier, for instance?" he said.

"No, no! Of course not. Of anyone you have known personally; afraid of
anyone as an individual? That's what I mean."

"I can't remember that I ever have."

"Do you think it possible to love someone who inspires you at moments
with unreasoning dread?"

"No; candidly I don't."

"I think there can be attraction in repulsion."

"I should be very sorry for myself if I yielded to such an attraction."

"Why?"

"Because I think it would probably lead to disaster."

"How soberly you speak!" said Miss Van Tuyn, almost with an air of
distaste.

After a moment of silence she added:

"I don't believe an Englishman has the power to lose his head."

Craven sat a little nearer to her.

"Would you like to see me lose mine?" he asked.

"I don't say that. But I should like you to be able to."

"And you? You are an American girl. Don't you pride yourself on your
coolness, your self-control, your power to deal with any situation? If
Englishmen are sober minded, what about American women? Do _they_ lose
their heads easily?"

"No. That's why--"

She stopped abruptly.

"What is it you want to say to me? What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing!" she answered.

And her voice sounded almost sulky.

The bar of lemon light over the sea narrowed. Clouds, with gold tinted
edges, were encroaching upon it. The tide had turned, and, because they
knew it, the voice of the sea sounded louder to them. Already they could
imagine those sands by night, could imagine their bleak desolation,
could almost feel the cold thrill of their loneliness.

Craven stretched out his hand and took one of hers and held it.

"Why do you do that?" she said. "You don't care for me really."

He pressed her hand. He wanted to kiss her at that moment. His youth,
the game they had played together, this isolation and nearness, the
oncoming night--they all seemed to be working together, pushing him
towards her mysteriously. But just at that moment on the sands close to
them two dark figures appeared, a fisherman in his Sunday best walking
with his girl. They did not see Miss Van Tuyn and Craven on the
sandbank. With their arms spread round each other's waists, and slightly
lurching in the wind, they walked slowly on, sinking at each step a
little in the sand. Their red faces looked bovine in the twilight.

Almost mechanically Craven's fingers loosened on Miss Van Tuyn's hand.
She, too, was chilled by this vision of Sunday love, and her hand came
away from his.

"They are having their Sunday out," she said, with a slight, cold laugh.
"And we have had ours!"

And she got up and shook the sand grains from her rough skirt.

"And that's happiness!" she added, almost with a sneer.

Like him she felt angry and almost tricked, hostile to the working of
sex, vulgarized by the sight of that other drawing together of two human
beings. Oh! the ineptitude of the echoes we are! Now she was irritated
with Craven because he had taken her hand. And yet she had been on the
edge of a great experiment. She knew that Craven did not love her--yet.
Perhaps he would never really love her. Certainly she did not love him.
And yet that day she had come out from London with a desire to take
refuge in him. It almost amounted to that. When they started she had not
known exactly what she was going to do. But she had set Craven, the safe
man, the man whom she could place, could understand, could certainly
trust up to a point, in her mind against Arabian, the unsafe man,
whom she could not place, could not understand, could not trust.
And, mentally, she had clung to Craven. And if those two bovine
sentimentalists had not intruded flat-footed upon the great waste of
Camber and the romance of the coming night, and Craven had yielded to
his impulse and had kissed her, she might have clung to him in very
truth. And then? She might have been protected against Arabian. But
evidently it was not to be. At the critical moment Fate had intervened,
had sent two human puppets to change the atmosphere.

She had really a sense of Fate upon her as she shook the sand from her
skirt. And the voice of the slowly approaching sea sounded in her ears
like the voice of the inevitable.

What must be must be.

The lemon in the sky was fast fading. The gold was dying away from the
edges of the clouds. The long lines of surf mingled together in a
blur of tangled whiteness. She looked for a moment into the gathering
dimness, and she felt a menace in it; she heard a menace in the cry of
the tides. And within herself she seemed to be aware of a menace.

"It's all there in us, every bit of it!" she said to herself. "That's
the horrible thing. It doesn't come upon us. It's in us."

And she said to Craven:

"Come!"

It was rapidly getting dark. The ground was uneven and rough, the sand
loose and crumbling.

"Do take my arm!" he said, but rather coldly, with constraint.

She hesitated, then took it. And the feeling of his arm, which was
strong and muscular, brought back to her that strange desire to use him
as a refuge.

Somewhat as Lady Sellingworth had thought of Seymour Portman, Beryl Van
Tuyn thought of Craven, who would certainly not have enjoyed knowledge
of it.

When they had scrambled down to the road, and saw the bright eyes of the
car staring at them from the edge of the marshes, she dropped his arm.

"How Adela Sellingworth would have enjoyed all this if she had been here
to-day instead of me!" she said.

"Lady Sellingworth!" said Craven, as if startled. "What made you think
of her just then?"

"I don't know. Stop a moment!"

She stood very still.

"I believe she has come back to London," she said. "Perhaps she sent the
thought to me from Berkeley Square. How long has she been away?"

"About five weeks, I should think."

"Would you be glad if she were back?"

"It would make very little difference to me," he said in a casual voice.
"Now put on your coat."

He helped her into the car, and they drove away from the sands and the
links, from the sea and their mood by the sea.

They drove through the darkness towards London, Lady Sellingworth and
Arabian.

CHAPTER IV

On the following day Miss Van Tuyn, remembering her feeling at Camber in
the twilight, went to the telephone and called up Number 18A, Berkeley
Square. The solemn voice of a butler--she knew at once a butler was
speaking--replied inquiring her business. She gave her name and asked
whether Lady Sellingworth had returned to London. The answer was that
her ladyship had arrived in London from the Continent on Saturday
evening.

"Please tell her ladyship that her friend, Miss Van Tuyn, will call on
her this afternoon about five o'clock," said Miss Van Tuyn.

Soon afterwards she put on her hat and fur coat and set off on her way
to Chelsea.

A little before five she turned into Berkeley Square on foot, coming
from Carlos Place.

She felt both curious and slightly hostile. She wondered very much why
Adela had gone away so mysteriously; she wondered where Adela had been
and whether she had returned changed. When Miss Van Tuyn had alluded to
the sheaves the thought in her mind had been markedly feminine. It had
occurred to her that Adela might have stolen away to have "things" done
to her; that she might come back to London mysteriously rejuvenated.
Such a thing was possible even at sixty. Miss Van Tuyn had known of
waning beauties who had vanished, and who had returned to the world
looking alarmingly young. Certainly she had never known of a woman as
old in appearance as Adela becoming transformed. Nevertheless in modern
days, when the culture of beauty counts in its service such marvellous
experts, almost all things are possible. If Adela had gone quite mad
about Alick Craven the golden age might be found suddenly domiciled
in Number 18A. Then Adela's intention would be plain. She would have
returned from abroad armed _cap-a-pie_ for conquest.

The knowledge that Adela was in London had revived in Miss Van Tuyn the
creeping hostility which she had felt before her friend's departure. She
remembered her lonely walk to Soho, what she had seen through the lit-up
window of the _Bella Napoli_. The sensation of ill treatment returned to
her. She would have scorned to acknowledge even to herself that she was
afraid of Adela, that she dreaded Adela's influence on a man. But when
she thought of Craven she was conscious of a strange fluttering of
anxiety. She wanted to keep Craven as a friend. She wanted him to be her
special friend. This he had been, but only since Lady Sellingworth had
been out of London. Now she had come back. Over there shone the light
above the door of the house in which she was at this moment. How would
it be now?

A hard, resolute look came into Miss Van Tuyn's face as she walked past
the block of flats at the top of the square. She had a definite and
strong feeling that she must keep Craven as her friend, that she might
need him in the future. And of what use is a man who belongs to another
woman?

Arabian had told her that day that he had found a flat which suited him
in Chelsea looking over the river, and that he was leaving the Charing
Cross Hotel. For some reason the news had startled her. He had spoken in
a casual way, but his eyes had not been casual as they looked into hers.
And she had felt that Arabian had taken a step forward, that he was
moving towards some project with which she was connected in his mind,
and that the taking of this flat was part of the project.

She must not lose Craven as a friend. If she did she would lose one
on whom she was beginning to rely. Women are of no use in certain
contingencies, and a beautiful woman can seldom thoroughly trust another
woman. Miss Van Tuyn absolutely trusted no woman. But she trusted
Craven. She thought she must be very fond of him. And yet she had
none of the feeling for him which persecuted her now when she was with
Arabian. Arabian drew her in an almost occult way. She felt his tug like
the mysterious tug of water when one stands near a weir in a river. When
she was with him she sometimes had a physical impulse to lean backward.
And that came because of another strong and opposing impulse which
seemed mental.

Adela should not entice Craven back to her. She was long past the age
of needing trusty comrades and possible helpers, in Beryl's opinion.
Whatever she did, or hoped, or wanted, or strove for, life was really
over for her, the life that is life, with its unsuspected turns, and
intrigues, and passions and startling occurrences. Even if for a time
such a man as Craven were hypnotized by a woman's strong will-power,
such an unnatural condition could not possibly last. But Beryl made
up her mind that she would not suffer even a short interim of power
exercised by Adela. Even for poor Adela's own sake such an interim was
undesirable. It would only lead to suffering. And while it lasted she,
Beryl, might need something and lack it. That must not be. Adela was
finished, and she must learn to understand that she was finished. No
woman ought to seek to prolong her reign beyond a certain age. If Adela
had come back with her sheaves they must be resolutely scattered to the
winds--by somebody.

Arabian had taken a flat in Chelsea looking over the river. Evidently he
was going to settle down in London.

"But I live in Paris!" thought Miss Van Tuyn, as she pushed Lady
Sellingworth's bell.

Her ladyship was at home, and Miss Van Tuyn mounted the stairs full of
expectation.

When she came into the big drawing-room she noticed at once how dimly
lit it was. Besides the firelight there was only one electric lamp
turned on, and that was protected by a rather large shade, and stood on
a table at some distance from Lady Sellingworth's sofa. A tall figure
got up from this sofa as Miss Van Tuyn made her way towards the fire,
and the well-remembered and very individual husky voice said:

"Dear Beryl! It's good of you to come to see me so soon. I only arrived
on Saturday."

"Dearest! How dark it is! I can scarcely see you."

"I love to give the firelight a chance. Didn't you know that? Come and
sit down and tell me what you have been doing. You have quite given up
Paris?"

"Yes, for the time. I've become engrossed in painting. Dick Garstin has
given me the run of his studio. But where have you been?"

As she put the question Miss Van Tuyn looked closely at her friend, and,
in spite of the dimness, she noticed a difference in her appearance.
The white hair still crowned the beautifully shaped head, but it looked
thicker, more alive than formerly. The change which struck her most,
however, was in the appearance of the face. It seemed, she thought,
markedly younger and fresher, smoother than she remembered it, firmer
in texture. Surely some, many even, of the wrinkles had disappeared. And
the lips, once so pale and weary, were rosy now--if the light was not
deceiving her. The invariable black dress, too, had vanished. Adela wore
a lovely gown of a deep violet colour and had a violet band in her
hair. She sat very upright. Her tall figure seemed almost braced up.
And surely she looked less absolutely natural than usual. There
was something--a slight hardness, perhaps, a touch of conscious
imperviousness in look and manner, a watchful something--which made Miss
Van Tuyn for a moment think of a photograph she had seen on a member of
the "old guard's" table.

The sheaves! The sheaves!

But the girl longed for more light. She knew she was not deceived
entirely by the dimness, but she longed for crude revelation. Already
her mind was busily at work on the future. She felt, although she
had only been in the room for two or three minutes, that the Lady
Sellingworth who had just come back to London must presently be her
enemy. And she wished to get in the first blow, since blows there would
have to be.

"Where have I been?" said Lady Sellingworth. "In the place of the
swans--in Geneva."

"Geneva! We thought you had gone to the Riviera, probably to Cap
Martin."

"I did go to the Riviera first."

"It must have been a desert."

"Not quite. Cannes would have been quite pleasant. But I had to go on to
Geneva to see a friend."

Miss Van Tuyn thought of Lausanne, of doctors. Many women whom she
knew in Paris swore by the doctors of Berne and Lausanne. There were
wonderful treatments now for old women. Extraordinary things were done
with monkey glands and other mysterious preparations and inoculations.
Was not Adela's manner changed? Did she not diffuse an atmosphere of
intention, of vigour, which had not been hers before? Did she not seem
younger?

"Did you stay long at the Beau Rivage?" she asked.

"Yes, I did."

"We have missed you."

"I like to think that."

"London loses its most characteristic note for me when you are not in
it."

Miss Van Tuyn's curiosity was becoming intense, but how could she
gratify it? She sought about for an opening, but found none. For it was
seldom her way to be quite blunt with women, though with men she was
often blunt.

"Everyone has been wondering where you were," she said. "Mr. Braybrooke
was quite in a turmoil. Does he know you are back?"

"I haven't told him. But he gets to know everything in less than five
minutes. And what have you been doing?"

This simple question suddenly gave Miss Van Tuyn the idea for a plan of
campaign. It sprang into her brain, flashed upon it like an inspiration.
For a moment she was rigid. Her body was strongly influenced. Then as
the idea made itself at home in her she became supple and soft again.

"I've got a lot to tell you," she said, "if you won't be bored."

"You never bore me, Beryl."

"No, I don't believe I do. Well, first I must tell you how good Dick
Garstin has been to me."

"Garstin the painter?"

"Yes."

And she enlarged upon her intense interest in painting, her admiration
for Garstin's genius, her curiosity about his methods and aims, her
passion for understanding the arts although she could not create
herself. Lady Sellingworth, who knew the girl's genuine interest in all
art developments, listened quite convinced of Beryl's sincerity. Arabian
was never mentioned. Miss Van Tuyn did not go into details. She spoke
only of models, of Garstin's varying moods, of his way of getting a
thing on to canvas, of his views on colour and technique.

"It must be absorbingly interesting to watch such a man at work," Lady
Sellingworth said presently.

"It is. It's fascinating."

"And so that is the reason why you are staying so long in smoky old
London?"

"No, Adela, it isn't. At least, that's not the only reason."

The words were spoken slowly and were followed by a curiously conscious,
almost, indeed, embarrassed look from the girl's violet eyes.

"No?"

After a long pause Beryl said:

"You know I have always looked upon you as a book of wisdom."

"It's very difficult to be wise," said Lady Sellingworth, with a touch
of bitterness. "And sometimes very dull."

"But you are wise, dearest. I feel it. You have known and done so
much, and you have had brains to understand, to seek out the truth from
experience. You have lived with understanding. You are not like the
people who travel round the world and come back just the same as if they
had been from Piccadilly Circus to Hampstead Heath and back. One _feels_
you have been round the world when one is with you."

"Does one?" said Lady Sellingworth, rather drily. "But I fancied
nowadays the young thought all the wisdom lay with them."

"Well, I don't. And, besides, I think you are marvellously discreet."

"Wise! Discreet! I begin to feel as if I ought to sit on the Bench!"

Again there was the touch of bitterness in the voice. A very faint smile
hovered for an instant about Miss Van Tuyn's lips.

"Judging the foolish women! Well, I think you are one of the few who
would have a right to do that. You are so marvellously sensible."

"Anyhow, I have no wish to do it. But--you were going to tell me?"

"In confidence."

"Of course. The book of wisdom never opens its leaves to the mob."

"I want very much to know your opinion of young Alick Craven."

As she heard the word "young" Lady Sellingworth had great difficulty
in keeping her face still. Her mouth wanted to writhe, to twist to the
left. She had the same intense shooting feeling that had hurt her when
Seymour Portman had called Alick Craven a boy.

"Of Mr. Craven!" she said, with sudden severe reserve. "Why? Why?"

Directly she had spoken she regretted the repetition. Her mind felt
stiff, unyielding. And all her body felt stiff too.

"That's what I want to tell you," said Miss Van Tuyn, speaking with some
apparent embarrassment.

And immediately Lady Sellingworth knew that she did not want to hear,
that it would be dangerous, almost deadly, for her to hear. She longed
to spread out her hands in the protesting gesture of one keeping
something off, away from her, to say, "Don't! Don't! I won't hear!" And
she sat very still, and murmured a casual "Yes?"

And then Miss Van Tuyn shot her bolt very cleverly, her aim
being careful and good, her hand steady as a rock, her eyes fixed
undeviatingly on the object she meant to bring down. She consulted
Lady Sellingworth about her great friendship with Craven, told Lady
Sellingworth how for some time, "ever since the night we all went to
the theatre," Craven had been seeking her out persistently, spoke of
his visits, their dinners together, their games of golf at Beaconsfield,
finally came to Sunday, "yesterday."

"In the morning the telephone rang and we had a little talk. A Daimler
car was suggested and a run down to Rye. You know my American ideas,
Adela. A long day alone in the country with a boy--"

"Mr. Craven is scarcely a boy, I think!"

"But we call them boys!"

"Oh, yes!"

"With a boy means nothing extraordinary to a girl with my ideas. But I
think he took it rather differently. Anyhow, we spent the whole day out
playing golf together, and in the evening, when twilight was coming on,
we drove to Camber Sands. Do you know them?"

"No."

"They are vast and absolutely deserted. It was rather stormy, but we
took a long walk on them, and then sat on a sand bank to watch the night
coming on. I dare say it all sounds very ridiculous and sentimental to
you! I am sure it must!"

"No, no. Besides, I know you Americans do all these things with no
sentiment at all, merely _pour passer le temps_."

"Yes, sometimes. But he isn't an American."

Again she looked slightly embarrassed and seemed to hesitate.

"You mean--you think that he--?"

"It was that evening . . . last night only, in fact--"

"Oh, yes, of course it was last night. To-day is Monday."

"That I began to realize that we were getting into a rather different
relation to each other. When it began to get dark he wanted to hold my
hand and--but I needn't go into all that. It would only seem silly to
you. You see, we are both young, though, of course, he is older than
I. But he is very young, quite a boy in feeling and even in manner very
often. I have seen him lately in all sorts of circumstances, so I know."

She stopped as if thinking. Lady Sellingworth sat very upright on her
sofa, with her head held rather high, and her hands, in their long white
gloves, quite still. And there was a moment of absolute silence in the
drawing-room. At last Miss Van Tuyn spoke again.

"I feel since last night that things are different between Alick and
me."

"Are you engaged to him--to Mr. Craven?"

"Oh, no. He hasn't asked me to be. But I want to know what you think of
him. It would help me. I like him very much. But you know far more about
men than I do."

"I doubt it, Beryl. I see scarcely anyone now. You live in Paris
surrounded by clever men and--"

"But you have had decades more of experience than I have. In fact, _you_
have been round the world and I have, so to speak, only crossed the
Channel. Do help me, Adela. I am full of hesitation and doubt, and yet
I am getting very fond of Alick. And I don't want to hurt him. I think I
hurt him a little yesterday, but--"

"Sir Seymour Portman!" said Murgatroyd's heavy voice at the door.

And the old courtier entered almost eagerly, his dark eyes shining under
the thatch of eyebrows and the white gleam of the "cauliflower."

And very soon Miss Van Tuyn went away, without the advice which she was
so anxious to have. As she walked through Berkeley Square she felt
more at ease than when she had come into it. But she was puzzled about
something. And she said to herself:

"Can she have tried monkey glands too?"

CHAPTER V

Lady Sellingworth of course understood Beryl's purpose in visiting her
so soon and in being so unreserved to her. The girl's intention was
absolutely clear to her mind horribly experienced in the cruel ways of
women. Nevertheless she believed that Beryl had spoken the truth about
what had happened at Camber.

When it began to get dark Craven had wanted to hold Beryl's hand.

Lady Sellingworth felt that she hated Beryl, hated Alick Craven. And
herself? She did not want to contemplate herself. It seemed to her that
she was fastened up with, chained to, a being she longed to ignore, to
be without knowledge of. Something of her was struggling to be away from
something else of her that was hideous. Battle, confusion, dust, dying
cries, flying, terror-stricken feet! She was aware of tumult and despair
in the silence of her beautiful house. And she was aware also of that
slow and terrible creeping of hatred, the thing that did harm to her,
that set her far away from any nobility she possessed.

She had gone abroad to fight, and had come back having lost her battle.
And already she was being scourged for her failure.

When she had been striving alone these two had evidently forgotten her
existence. Directly she had passed for a short time out of their lives
they had come together. Youth had instinctively sought out youth, and
she, the old woman, had been as one dead to them. If she had stayed away
for years, if she had never come back, it would not have mattered to
them.

Beryl's lack of all affection for her did not seriously trouble her. She
knew the dryness of vanity; she knew that it was practically impossible
for a girl so vain as Beryl to care deeply, or at all unselfishly, for
another woman. But Craven's conduct was not what she had looked for.
It seemed to stamp him as typical, and she had supposed him to be
exceptional. When Beryl had told her about Camber--so little and yet so
much--she had been struck to the heart; and yet she had seen a vision of
servants, the footman out in the dark with the under housemaid.

Seymour Portman's observant old eyes, the terrible eyes of affection,
took in the change in her, not quite as a woman's eyes would have done,
but in their own adequate way. His Adela looked different. Something had
happened to her. The envelope had been touched up in some, to him, quite
mysterious manner. And he did not like it. It even gave him a mild
sort of shock. The touch of artificiality was cold on this amazingly
straightforward old man. He loved his Adela with all the wrinkles, with
the sagging skin, and the lined throat, and the curiously experienced
weariness about the temples. She lived for him in the brilliant eyes,
and was loved by him in them. And why should she suddenly try to change
her appearance? It had certainly not been done for him--this Something.
She was looking handsomer than usual, and yet he seemed to be aware that
beneath the improved surface there was a tragic haggardness which had
come into existence while she had been away.

He did not reproach her for the mystery of her absence, or for her
silence; he did not ask her questions about where she had been, what
she had done; he just sat with her and loved her. And his love made her
horribly uneasy that day. She could not be still under it. She felt as
if the soul of her kept shifting about, as a child shifts about under
the watchful eyes of an elder. She felt the physical tingle of guilt.
And she was thankful when at last Seymour went away and left her alone
with her hatred.

All those weeks! She had deliberately left the ground free to Beryl for
all those weeks, and she had returned with no expectation of the thing
that of course had happened. And yet she had believed that she had an
excellent knowledge of life and of human beings. No doubt she had been
so concentrated upon herself, and the struggle within herself that she
had been unable to make any use of that knowledge. And so now she was
full of hatred and of profound humiliation.

When she had abruptly left England she had made up her mind to "have
done with it," that is to have done with love, to have done even
with sentimental friendship. She had resolved to plunge into complete
loneliness. Since she could not take Seymour into her intimate life,
since she now knew that was absolutely impossible, she must somehow
manage to get along permanently with nothing. And so, yielding to a
desperate impulse, she had resolved to seek an unaccustomed solitude.
She had fled from London. But she had stopped in Paris; although she had
intended to pass through it and to go straight on to Marseilles and the
Riviera. When the train had run in to the Gare du Nord she had told
her surprised maid that she was tired and would not go on that night.
Suddenly she had decided to seek out Caroline Briggs, to make a
confession, to ask for help and sympathy. And she had sent her maid to a
hotel, and had driven to Caroline's house.

But Caroline was not in Paris. A blue-cheeked, close-shaven French
footman had informed her that his mistress had been obliged to sail for
America three days before.

It had been a great blow to her. Confession, the cry for help, had been
almost on her lips as she had stood at the door before the keen-eyed
young man. And she had gone away feeling strangely lost and abandoned.

On the following morning she had left Paris and had travelled to the
Riviera. And, there, she had fought against herself and had lost the
battle.

Perhaps if she had been able to see Caroline the issue would have been
different. She almost believed that if she had once told the absolute
truth about herself to someone she might have found the courage to
put personal dignity in its right place at the head of her life as the
arbiter of what must not be done. Although she had defied Caroline ten
years ago, and had been punished for her defiance, she still had a deep
belief in Caroline's strength of character and clear insight. And she
knew that Caroline was really fond of her.

But Fate had removed her friend from her. And was it not because of that
removal that she had lost her battle? The sense of loneliness, of a
cold finality, had been too great for her. She had had too much time
for remembrance. And she had remembered certain hours with Craven by
the fire, had remembered the human warmth of them, till the longing for
happiness had overpowered everything else in her. They had been very
happy together. She had been able to make him happy. His eager eyes had
shown it. And their joy had been quite innocent; there had been no
harm in it at all. Why should she deliberately forego such innocent
contentment? Walking alone on the sea front at Cannes in the warm and
brilliant weather she had asked herself that question. If Craven were
there! And in the long loneliness she had begun presently, as often
before, to try to cheat herself. The drastic heart of London had seemed
to change into another heart. And at last she had followed the example
of a woman in Paris some ten years ago.

She had as it were got out of the train once more.

She had not, perhaps, been fully conscious of the terrible repetition
brought about by a temperament which apparently refused to change.
She had no doubt tried to deceive herself though she had not deceived
herself ten years ago at the Gare du Nord. She had even lied to herself,
saying that in London she had given way to a foolish and morbid mood of
fear, induced in her by memories of disasters in the past, that she had
imagined danger where no danger existed. In London panic had seized her.
But now in a different atmosphere and environment, quite alone and able,
therefore, to consider things carefully and quietly, to see them in
their true light, she had told herself that it was preposterous to
give up an innocent joy merely because long ago she had been subject to
folly. Ten years had elapsed since her last fit of folly. She must have
changed since then. It was inevitable that she had changed. She had
lied to herself in London when she had told herself that Craven would be
satisfied in their friendship, while she would be almost starving. Her
subsequent prayer had been answered. Passion was dead in her. A tender,
almost a motherly feeling--that really was what she felt and would
always feel for Alick Craven. She need not fear such a feeling. She
would not fear it. Morbidity had possessed her. The sunshine of Cannes
had driven it away. She had presently been glad that she had not found
Caroline in Paris. For if she had made that confession she would have
put an obstacle in the path which she now resolved to tread.

She had told herself that, and finally she had decided to return to
London.

But she had gone first to Geneva, and had put herself there into the
hands of a certain specialist, whose fame had recently reached the ears
of a prominent member of the "old guard," no other than the Duchess of
Wellingborough.

And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on the
threshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences.

She had not yet told Craven of her return. For the moment she was glad
that she had not given way to her impulse and telephoned to him on
the Sunday. She might have caught him with her message just as he was
starting for Rye with Beryl. That would have been horrible. Of course
she would not telephone to him now. She resolved to ignore him. He had
forgotten all about her. She would seem to forget about him. There was
nothing else to be done. Pride, the pride of the _Grande Dame_ which she
had never totally lost, rose up in her, hot, fiery even; it mingled with
an intense jealousy, and made her wish to inflict punishment. She was
like a wounded animal that longs to strike, to tear with its claws, to
lacerate and leave bleeding. Nevertheless she had no intention of taking
action against either of those who had hurt her. Beryl should have her
triumph. Youth should be left in peace with its own cruelty.

Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth's return to
Berkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added the
information that she had arrived on the previous Saturday.

"Oh!" said Craven, with apparent indifference. "Have you seen her?"

Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking, in
his opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual.

"She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and in
Switzerland."

"In Switzerland!" said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke's remarks about
Catherine Bewdley and Lausanne.

"Yes, but I don't think she has been ill. I ventured to--just to say a
word as to doctors, and she assured me she had been perfectly well all
the time she was away. Are you going to see her?"

"I've got a good deal to do just now," said Craven, coldly and with a
slight rise of colour. "But of course I hope to see Lady Sellingworth
again some day. She is a charming woman. It's always a pleasure to have
a talk with her."

"Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn's extraordinarily
good-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?"

"What friend?" asked Craven, with sudden sharpness.

"The tall man she has been seen about with lately."

"I don't know."

After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke's part, Craven
replied:

"Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people."

"To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a little
inclined to gossip."

"Lady Archie Brooke?"

"Yes. She has met Miss Van Tuyn two or three times in Glebe Place, it
seems, walking with a man whom she describes as a marvel of good looks.
But there's Antring. I must have a word with him. He is just over from
Paris."

And Braybrooke walked away with his usual discreet gait. He was feeling
decidedly satisfied. Young Craven had certainly not been pleased with
the information so casually imparted. It had aroused--Braybrooke was
convinced of it--a sensation of jealousy which promised well for the
future. Braybrooke was almost sure now that his young friend had
fallen thoroughly in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. The coldness about Adela
Sellingworth, the sudden touch of heat about Beryl Van Tuyn, surely
indicated that. Braybrooke was not seriously upset about Lady Archie's
remarks. She really was a tremendous gossip, although of course a
delightful woman. And Miss Van Tuyn was always surrounded by men.
Nevertheless he was decidedly curious about the good-looking stranger
who had been seen in Glebe Place. He had a retentive memory, and had not
forgotten Dick Garstin's extraordinary remark about the blackmailer.

Braybrooke was not mistaken about Craven. The information about Adela
Sellingworth had renewed Craven's hot sense of injury. Braybrooke did
not understand that. But the subsequent remark about Beryl Van Tuyn
had added fuel to the fire, and the sharp jealousy of sensitive youth
mingled with the feeling of injury. Craven had been hurt by the elderly
woman. Was he now to be hurt by the girl? Braybrooke's news had made him
feel really angry. Yet he knew he had no right to be angry. He began to
wish that he had never gone to Berkeley Square on that autumn afternoon,
had never met the two women who were beginning to complicate his life.
For a moment he thought of dropping them both. But had not one of them
already dropped him? He would certainly not call again in Berkeley
Square. If Lady Sellingworth did not ask him to go there he would not
attempt to see her. He was not going to fight for her friendship. And
as to Beryl Van Tuyn--The curious name--Nicolas Arabian--came into his
mind and a conversation at a box at a theatre. Miss Van Tuyn had told
him about this magnificently handsome man, this "living bronze," but
somehow he had never thought of her as specially intimate with a fellow
who frequented the Cafe Royal, and who apparently sat as a model to
painters. But now he realized that this must be the man of Glebe Place,
and he felt more angry, more injured than before.

Yet he was not in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. Or had he fallen in
love with her without being aware of it? She attracted him very much
physically at times. She amused him, interested him. He liked being with
her. He was angry at the thought of another man's intimacy with her. He
wanted her to be fond of him, to need him, to prefer him to all other
men. But he often felt critical about her, about her character, though
not about her beauty. A lover surely could not feel like that. A lover
just loved, and there was an end of it.

He could not understand his own feelings. But when he thought of Beryl
Van Tuyn he felt full of the fighting instinct, and ready to take
the initiative. He would never fight to retain Lady Sellingworth's
friendship, but he would fight to assert himself with the beautiful
American. She should not take him up and use him merely as a means to
amusement without any care for what was due to him. Lady Sellingworth
was old, and in a sense famous. Such a woman could do as she pleased.
With her, protest would be ridiculous. But he would find a way with
Beryl Van Tuyn.

On that day and the next Craven did not see Miss Van Tuyn. No message
came to him from Lady Sellingworth. Evidently the latter wished to have
nothing more to do with him. She had now been in London for nearly a
week without letting him know it. Miss Van Tuyn had telephoned once
suggesting a meeting. But Craven had charmingly put her off, alleging a
tiresome engagement. He did not choose now to seem eager to meet her.
He was considering what he would do. If he could manage to meet her
in Glebe Place! But how to contrive such an encounter? While he was
meditating about this he was again rung up by Miss Van Tuyn, who
suggested that he should play golf with her at Beaconsfield on the
following day, Saturday.

"You can't pretend you are working overtime at the F.O. to-morrow," she
said.

Craven replied that the F.O. kept him very long even on Saturdays.

"What's the matter? What are you angry about?" asked Miss Van Tuyn
through the telephone.

Craven intended to make a quietly evasive reply, but he found himself
saying:

"If I work overtime at the F.O., are there not others who do much the
same--in Glebe Place?"

After a pause Miss Van Tuyn said:

"I haven't an idea what you mean."

Craven said nothing. Already he was angry with himself, and regretted
his impulsiveness.

"Well?" said Miss Van Tuyn.

"Well?" retorted Craven, feeling rather absurd.

Again there was a pause. Then, speaking quickly, Miss Van Tuyn said: "If
you can escape from the F.O. you might be in Glebe Place about five on
Monday. Good-bye!"

And she rang off, leaving Craven with the pleasant sensation that, as
often before, he had "given himself away." Certainly he had shown Miss
Van Tuyn his jealousy. She must have guessed what his mention of Glebe
Place meant. And yet she had asked him to go there on the following
Monday. If he did not go perhaps that neglect would cancel his
imprudence at the telephone.

He made up his mind not to go.

Nevertheless, when he left the Foreign Office on the Monday about
half-past four, instead of going towards Mayfair he found himself
walking quickly in the direction of Chelsea.

CHAPTER VI

Miss Van Tuyn was in Garstin's studio on that day. Although apparently
calm and self-possessed she was in a condition of acute nervous
excitement. Craven's mention of Glebe Place through the telephone had
startled her. At once she had understood. People had begun to gossip,
and the gossip had reached Craven's ears. She had reddened as she stood
by the telephone. A definite sensation of anxiety mingled with shame
had crept in her. But it had been succeeded by a decisive feeling more
really characteristic of her. As Craven now evidently knew of her close
acquaintance with Arabian the two men should meet. She would conquer her
reluctance, and put Arabian to the test with Craven. For a long time she
had wished to know what Craven would think of Arabian; for a long time,
too, she had been afraid to know. But now she would hesitate no more.
Dick Garstin was to have a sitting from Arabian on the Monday afternoon.
It ought to be over about half-past four. She could easily manage to
prolong matters in the studio till five, so that Craven might have time
to get to Glebe Place from the Foreign Office. Of course, he might not
choose to come. But if he were really jealous she thought he would come.

Now she was anticipating the coming interview with an uneasiness which
she could only conceal by a strong effort.

At last, after repeated failures, Garstin was beginning to work with
energy and real satisfaction. Of late he had been almost venomous. His
impotence to do what he wished to do had made him more disagreeable,
more brutal even than usual. His habitual brusqueness had often
degenerated into downright rudeness. But suddenly a change had come, one
of those mysterious changes in the mood and powers of an artist which
neither he nor anyone else can understand. Abruptly the force which had
abandoned him had returned.

The change had occurred on the day of Miss Van Tuyn's conversation
through the telephone with Craven, a Friday.

Arabian had refused to sit on the Saturday and Sunday. He said he was
moving into his Chelsea flat, and had many things to do. He could not
come to the studio again till the Monday afternoon at half-past two.
Garstin had been furious, but he had been met by a will apparently as
inflexible as his own.

"I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Dick Garstin," Arabian had said.

And after a pause he had added:

"I hope I have not shown impatience all this long time?"

Garstin had cursed, but he had not persisted. Evidently he had realized
that persistence would be useless. On the Monday he had received Arabian
with frigid hauteur, but soon he had become intent on his work and had
apparently forgotten his grievance.

Half-past four struck--then the quarter to five. Garstin had been
painting for more than two hours. Now he put down his brush and frowned,
still looking at Arabian, who was sitting in an easy, almost casual
position, with his magnificent brown throat and shoulders exposed.

"Finished!" he said in his loud bass voice.

Miss Van Tuyn, who was curled up on a divan in a corner of the studio,
moved and put down a book which she had been pretending to read. Garstin
had forbidden her to come near to him that day while he was painting.

"Finished!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean--"

"No, damn it, I don't!" said Garstin, with exasperation. "I don't! Do
you take me for a magician, or what? I have finished for to-day! Now
then!"

He began to move the easel. Miss Van Tuyn got up, and Arabian, without
saying a word, stretched himself, looked at her steadily for a moment,
then pulled up his silk vest and carefully buttoned it with his
strong-looking fingers. Then he too got up, and went away to the
dressing-room to put on his shirt, waistcoat, collar and tie.

"May I see, Dick?" asked Miss Van Tuyn.

"No, you mayn't."

"Are you satisfied?"

"He's coming out more as I want him this time."

"Do you think you have found his secret?"

"Or yours, eh? What is happening in you, my girl?"

Before she could answer a telephone bell rang below.

"Damn!" said Garstin, going towards the staircase.

Before he went down he turned round and said:

"You're travelling fast."

And he disappeared. She heard him below tramping to the telephone. Then
she went to a small square window in the studio, pushed it open, and
looked out. There was a tiny space of garden below. She saw a plane
tree shivering in the wind, yellow leaves on the rain-sodden ground. A
sparrow flitted by and perched on the grimy coping of a low wall. And
she shivered like the plane tree.

"Beryl!"

She started, turned, and went to the head of the stairs.

"What is it?"

"The telephone's for you. Come along down!"

"Coming!" she answered.

"Who is it?" she said, as she saw him standing by the telephone with the
receiver in his hand.

"Some old woman, by the voice. She says she must speak to you.
Here--take it, my girl!"

"It must be old Fanny!" said Miss Van Tuyn, with a touch of irritation.
"Nobody else would know I was here. But I stupidly told Fanny."

She took the receiver out of his hand.

"I'm here! Who is it? Do make haste. I'm in a hurry."

She was thinking of Craven. It was nearly five o'clock, and she did not
want to be late in Glebe Place, though she dreaded the encounter she
expected there.

"Oh, Beryl, there's bad news!"

"Bad news! What news?"

"I can't tell you like this."

"Nonsense! Tell me at once!"

"I can't! I simply cannot. Oh, my dear, get into a taxi and come back at
once."

"I insist on your telling me what is the matter!" said Miss Van Tuyn
sharply.

Her nerves were already on edge, and something in the sound of the voice
through the telephone frightened her.

"Tell me at once what it is! Now speak plainly!"

There was a pause; then the agitated voice said:

"A cable has come from the Bahamas."

"The Bahamas! Well? Well?"

"Your poor father has--"

The voice failed.

"Oh, do tell me! For Heaven's sake, what is it?"

"Your poor father is dead. Oh, Beryl!"

Miss Van Tuyn stood quite still for a moment.

"My father--dead!" she thought.

She felt surprised. She felt shocked. But she was not conscious of
any real sorrow. She very seldom saw her father. Since he had married
again--he had married a woman with whom he was very much in love--his
strongly independent daughter had faded into the background of his life.
Beryl had not set her eyes upon him during the last eighteen months. It
was impossible that she could miss him much, a father with whom she had
spent for years so little of her time. She knew that she would not miss
him. Yet she had had a shock. After an instant she said:

"Thank you, Fanny. I shall be home very soon. Of course, I shall leave
the studio at once. Good-bye."

She hung up the receiver and went upstairs slowly. And as she went she
resolved not to say anything about what had happened to Dick Garstin.
He was incapable of expressing conventional sympathy, and would probably
say something bizarre which would jar on her nerves if she told him.

She found the two men standing together in the studio. Arabian had on
his overcoat and gloves, and was holding his hat and umbrella.

"It was only Fanny Cronin!" she said.

As she spoke she looked narrowly at Garstin. Could Fanny have told him
the news? The casual expression on his face set her mind at ease on that
point. She was certain that he knew nothing.

"I must go," she said.

"I will walk with you to a taxi if you kindly allow me," said Arabian,
getting her fur coat.

"Thank you!"

As he stood behind her helping her to get into the coat she was
conscious of a strange and terrible feeling of fear mingled with an
intense desire to give herself up to the power in this man. Was Craven
outside? Something in her hoped, almost prayed, that he might be. It was
surely the part of her that was afraid.

"Good-bye, Dick!" she said in an offhand voice.

"Good-bye!" he said. "Take care of her, Arabian."

She sent him a look full of intense and hostile inquiry. He met it with
a half-amused smile.

"I shall do better now," he said.

"Ah?" said Arabian, looking polite and imperturbable.

"Come along!" said Miss Van Tuyn. "It must be getting late."

As she spoke a clock in the room began striking five. For a moment
she felt confused and almost ill. Her brain seemed too full of rushing
thoughts for its holding capacity. Her head throbbed. Her legs felt
weak.

"Anything the matter?" asked Garstin, gazing at her with keen attention
and curiosity.

"No," she said coldly. "Good-bye."

And she went down the stairs followed by Arabian.

Garstin did not accompany them. He had gone to stand before his picture
of Arabian.

Miss Van Tuyn opened the door. A soft gust of wind blew some small rain
into her face.

"Let me hold my umbrella over you, please," said Arabian. "Do take my
arm while we look for a taxi."

"No, no!"

She walked on.

"There is nothing the matter, I hope?"

"I had some bad news through the telephone."

She felt impelled to say this to him, though she had said nothing to
Garstin. Her brain still felt horribly overcharged, and an impulse had
come to her to seek instant relief.

"My father is dead," she added.

As she spoke she looked up at him, and she saw a sharp quiver distort
his lips for an instant.

"Did you know him?" she exclaimed, standing still.

"I? Indeed no! Why should you suppose so?"

"I thought--I don't know!"

He was now looking so calm, so earnestly sympathetic, that she almost
believed that her eyes had played her a trick and that his face had not
changed at her news.

"I'm not normal to-day," she thought.

"I am deeply grieved, deeply. Please accept from me my most full
sympathy."

"Thank you. I scarcely ever saw my father, but naturally this news has
upset me. He died in the Bahamas."

"How very sad! So far away!"

"Yes."

They were still standing together, and he was holding his umbrella over
her head and gazing down at her earnestly, when Craven turned the corner
of the road and came up to them. Miss Van Tuyn flushed. Although she
had asked Craven to come, she felt startled when she saw him, and her
confusion of mind increased. She did not feel competent to deal with the
situation which she had deliberately brought about. Craven had come upon
them too suddenly. She had somehow not expected him just at that moment,
when she and Arabian were standing still. Before she was able to recover
her normal self-possession, Craven had taken off his hat to her and gone
rapidly past them. She had just time to see the grim line of his lips
and the hard, searching glance he sent to her companion. Arabian, she
noticed, looked after him, and she saw that, while he looked, his
large eyes lost all their melting gentleness. They had a cruel, almost
menacing expression in them, and they were horribly intelligent at that
moment.

"What does this man not know?" she thought.

He might have little, or no, ordinary learning, but she was positive
that he had an almost appallingly intimate knowledge of many chapters in
the dark books of life.

"Shall we--?" said Arabian.

And they walked on slowly together.

"May I make a suggestion, Miss Van Tuyn," he said gently.

"What is it?"

"My little flat is close by, in Rose Tree Gardens. It is not quite
arranged, but tea will be ready. Let me please offer you a cup of tea
and a cigarette. There is a taxi!"

He made a signal with his left hand.

"We will keep it at the door, so that you may at once leave when you
feel refreshed. You have had this bad shock. You need a moment to
recover."

The cab stopped beside them.

"No, I must really go home," she said, with an attempt at determination.

"Of course! But please let me have the privilege. You have told me
first of all of your grief. This is real friendship. Let me then be also
friendly, and help you to recover yourself."

"But really I must--"

"Four, Rose Tree Gardens! You know them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good!"

The taxi glided away from the kerb.

And Miss Van Tuyn made no further protest. She had a strange feeling
just then that her will had abandoned her. Fanny Cronin's message must
have had an imperious effect upon her. Yet she still felt no real sorrow
at her father's death. She seemed to be enveloped in something which
made mental activity difficult, indeed almost impossible.

When the cab stopped, she said:

"I can only stay five minutes."

"Certainly! Dear Mademoiselle Cronin will expect you. Please wait for
the lady!"

Miss Van Tuyn was vaguely glad to hear him say that to the chauffeur.

She got out and looked upwards. She saw a big block of flats towering up
in front of her.

"On the other side they face the river Thames," said Arabian. "All my
windows except three look out that way. We will go up in the elevator."

They passed through a handsome hall and stepped into the lift, which
carried them up to the fourth floor of the building. Arabian put a
latch-key into a polished mahogany door with a big letter M in brass
nailed to it.

"Please!" he said, standing back for Miss Van Tuyn to pass in.

But she hesitated. She saw a pretty little hall, a bunch of roses in a
vase on a Chippendale table, two or three closed doors. She was aware
of a very faint and pleasant odour, like the odour of flowers not roses,
and guessed that someone had been burning some perfume in the flat.
There was certainly nothing repellent in this temporary home of Arabian.
Yet she felt with a painful strength that she had better go away without
entering it. While she paused, but before she had said anything, she
heard a quiet step, and a thin man of about thirty with a very dark
narrow face and light, grey eyes appeared.

"Please bring tea for two at once," said Arabian in Spanish.

"Yes, sir, in a moment," said the man, also in Spanish.

Miss Van Tuyn stepped in, and the door was gently shut behind her by
Arabian's manservant.

Arabian opened the second door on the left of the hall.

"This is my little salon," he said. "May I--"

"No, thank you. I'll keep on my coat. I must go home in a minute. I
shall have a good deal to do. Really I oughtn't to be here at all. If
anyone--after such news--"

She looked at Arabian. She had just had news of the death of her father,
and she had come out to tea with this man. Was she crazy?

"I don't know why I came!" she said bluntly, angrily almost.

"Do please sit down," he said, pushing forward a large arm-chair. "If
these curtains were not drawn we could see the river Thames from here.
It is a fine view."

He bent down and poked the fire, then stood beside it, looking down at
her as she sat in the chair.

She glanced round the room. It was well furnished and contained two or
three good pieces, but there was nothing in it which showed personality,
a thoughtful guiding mind and taste; there was nothing in it even which
marked it definitely as the home of a woman rather than a man, or vice
versa.

"I rent it furnished," said Arabian, evidently guessing her thought.

"Are you here for long?"

"I do not quite know. That depends."

His large eyes were fixed upon her as he said this, and she longed to
ask him what intentions he had with regard to her. He had never made
love to her. He had never even been what is sometimes called "foolish"
with her. Not a word to which she could object had ever come from his
lips. By no action had he ever claimed anything from her. And yet she
felt that in some way he was governing her, was imposing his will on
her. Certainly he had once followed her in the street. But on that
occasion he had not known who she was. Now, as he gazed at her, she felt
certain that he had formed some definite project with regard to her, and
meant to carry it out at whatever cost. Garstin said he, Arabian, was in
love with her. Probably he was. But if he was in love with her, why
did he never hint at it when they were alone together except by the
expression in his eyes? She asked herself why she was afraid of him,
and the answer she seemed to get was that his reticence frightened her.
There was something in his continued inaction which alarmed her. It was
a silence of conduct which lay like a weight upon her. She felt it now
as he stared at her.

"What do you want with me?"

That was what she longed, and yet was afraid, to say to him. Did he know
how violently she was attracted by him and how fiercely he sometimes
repelled her? No doubt he did. No doubt he knew that at times she
believed him to be horrible, suspected him of nameless things, of
abominable relationships; no doubt he knew that she was degradingly
jealous of him. When his eyes were thus fixed upon her she felt that he
knew everything that was going on in her with which he had to do. Yet he
never spoke of his knowledge.

His reserve almost terrified her. That was the truth.

The dark man with the light eyes brought in tea on a large silver tray.
She began to drink it hastily.

"You--forgive me for asking--you will not leave London because of this
sad news?" said Arabian.

"Do you mean for America?"

"Yes."

Miss Van Tuyn had not thought of such a possibility till he alluded
to it. She could not, of course, be at her father's funeral. That was
impossible. But suddenly it occurred to her that she had no doubt come
into a very large fortune. There might be business to do. She might have
to cross the Atlantic. At the thought of this possibility her sense of
confusion and almost of mental blackness increased, and yet she realized
more vividly than before the death of her father.

"I don't know. I don't think so. No, thank you. I won't smoke. I must
go. I ought never to have come after receiving such news."

She stood up. He took her hand. His was warm and strong, and a great
deal of her personality seemed to her to be in its clasp--too much
indeed. His body fascinated hers, made her realize in a startling way
that the coldness of which some men had complained had either been
overcome by something that could burn and be consumed, or perhaps had
never existed.

"You will not go to America without telling me?" he said.

"No, no. Of course not."

"You told me first of your sorrow!"

"Why--why did I?" she thought, wondering.

"And you did not tell Dick Garstin."

"No."

"And you came here to me."

"No, no! With you!"

"To my rooms in spite of your grief. We are friends from to-night."

"To-night . . . but it is afternoon!"

He still had her hand in his. She felt, or fancied she felt, a pulse
beating in his hand. It gave her a sense of terrible intimacy with him,
as if she were close to the very sources of his being. And yet she knew
nothing about him.

"It gets dark so early now," he said.

Dark! As he said it she thought, "That's his word! That's his word!"
Everyone has his word, and dark was Arabian's.

"Good-bye!" she said.

"I will take you down."

Quietly and very naturally, he let her hand go. And at once she had a
sensation of being out in the cold.

They went down together in the lift. Just as they left it, and were in
the hall, a woman whom Miss Van Tuyn knew slightly, a Mrs. Birchington,
an intimate of the Ackroyde and Lady Wrackley set, met them coming from
the entrance.

"Oh, Miss Van Tuyn!" she said, stopping.

She held out her hand, looking from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian.

"How are you?"

Her light eyes were searching and inquisitive. She had an evening paper
in her hand.

"I--I am so grieved," she added, again looking at Arabian.

"Mr. Arabian--Mrs. Birchington!" Miss Van Tuyn felt obliged to say.

Mrs. Birchington and Arabian bowed.

"Grieved!" said Miss Van Tuyn.

"Yes. I have just seen the sad news about your father in the paper."

Miss Van Tuyn realized at once that she was caught, unless she lied. But
she did not choose to lie before Arabian. Something--her pride of a free
American girl, perhaps--forbade that. And she only said:

"Thank you for your sympathy. Good-bye."

"Good-bye!"

Mrs. Birchington bowed again to Arabian, swept him with her sharp
inquisitive eyes, and stepped into the lift.

"She lives here," he said, "in the apartment opposite to mine."

As Miss Van Tuyn drove away towards Claridge's she wondered whether
Arabian was glad because of that fortuitous meeting.

Because of it her close intimacy with him--it would certainly now be
called, and thought of, as that--would very soon be public property.
All those women would hear about it. How crazy she had been to visit
Arabian's flat at such a moment! She was angry with herself, and yet she
believed that in like circumstances she would do the same thing again.
Her power of will had deserted her, or this man, Arabian, had the power
to inhibit her will. And Craven? What could he be thinking about her?
She knew he was a sensitive man. What must he be thinking? That she had
asked him to come all the way to Glebe Place merely in order that he
might see her in deep conversation with another man. And she had not
even spoken to him. He would be furious. She remembered his face. He was
furious. By what she had done she had certainly alienated Craven.

And her father was dead!

She leaned back in the darkness of the cab, feeling weak and miserable,
almost terrified. Surely Fate had her in a tight grip. She remembered
Arabian's question: would it be necessary for her to go to America? Her
father was very rich. She was his only child. He must certainly have
left her a great deal of his money, for his second wife was wealthy and
would not need it. There might be business to do which would necessitate
her presence in New York. At that moment she almost wished for an urgent
summons from the New World. A few hours in a train, the crossing of a
gang-plank, the hoot of a siren, and she would be free from all
these complications! The sea would lie between her and Arabian--Adela
Sellingworth--Craven. She would stay away for months. She would not come
back at all.

But this man, Arabian, would he let her go without a word, without doing
something? Would his strange and horrible reserve last till her ship was
at sea? She could not believe it. If she made up her mind to sail, and
he knew it, he would speak, act. Something would happen. There would be
some revelation of character, of intention. She was sure of it. Arabian
was a man who could wait--but not for ever.

She still seemed to feel the pulse beating in his warm hand as she drove
through the rain and the darkness.

PART SIX

CHAPTER I

Mrs. Ackroyde had a pretty little house in Upper Grosvenor Street,
but she spent a good deal of her time in a country house which she had
bought at Coombe close to London. She was always there from Saturday to
Monday, when she was not paying visits or abroad, and Coombe Hall, as
her place was called, was a rallying ground for members of the "old
guard." Invariably guests came down on the Sunday to lunch and tea.
Bridge was the great attraction for some. For others there were lawn
tennis and golf. And often there was good music. For Mrs. Ackroyde was
an excellent musician as well as an ardent card-player.

Lady Sellingworth had occasionally been to Coombe Hall, but for several
years now she had ceased from going there. She did not care to show her
white hair and lined face in Mrs. Ackroyde's rooms, which were always
thronged with women she knew too well and with men who had ceased from
admiring her. And she was no longer deeply interested in the gossip of a
world in which formerly she had been one of the ruling spirits. She was,
therefore, rather surprised at receiving a note from Mrs. Ackroyde
soon after her return from Geneva urging her to motor to Coombe on the
following Sunday for lunch.

"I suppose there will be the usual crowd," Mrs. Ackroyde wrote. "And
I've asked Alick Craven and two or three who don't often come. What do
you think of Beryl Van Tuyn's transformation into an heiress? I hear
she's come into over three million dollars. I suppose she'll be more
unconventional than ever now. Minnie Birchington met her just after
her father's death, in fact the very day his death was announced in
the papers. She'd just been to tea with a marvellously good-looking
man called something Arabian, who has taken a flat in Rose Tree Gardens
opposite to Minnie's. Evidently this is the newest way of going into
deep mourning."

Lady Sellingworth hesitated for some time before answering this note.
Probably, indeed almost certainly, she would have refused the invitation
but for the last three sentences about Beryl Van Tuyn. She did not want
to see the girl again, for she could not help hating her. She had,
of course, sent a note of sympathy to Claridge's, and had received an
affectionate reply, which she had torn up and burnt after reading it.
But she had not gone to tell her regret at this death to Beryl, and
Beryl had expressed no wish to see her.

In her heart Lady Sellingworth hated humbug, and she knew, of course,
that any pretence of real friendship between Beryl and her would be
humbug in an acute form. She might in the future sometimes have to
pretend, but she was resolved not to rush upon insincerity. If Beryl
sought her out again she would play her part of friend gallantly to
conceal her wounds. But she would certainly not seek out Beryl.

She had not seen Craven since her return to London. In spite of
her anger against him, which was complicated by a feeling of almost
contemptuous disgust, she longed to see him again. Each day, when
she had sat in her drawing-room in the late afternoon and had heard
Murgatroyd's heavy step outside and the opening of the door, her heart
beat fast, and she had thought, "Can it be he?" Each day, after the
words "Sir Seymour Portman!" her heart had sunk and she had felt bitter
and weary.

And now came this invitation, putting it in her power to meet Craven
again naturally. Should she go?

She read Dindie Ackroyde's note once more carefully, and a strange
feeling stung her. She had been angry with Beryl for being fond of
Craven. (For she had supposed a real fondness in Beryl.) Now she was
angry with Beryl for a totally different reason. It was evident to her
that Beryl was behaving badly to Craven. As she looked at the note in
her hand she remembered a conversation in a box at the theatre. Arabian!
That was the name of the man Dick Garstin was painting, or had
been painting. Dindie Ackroyde called him "Something Arabian." Lady
Sellingworth's mind supplied the other name. It was Nicolas. Beryl had
described him as "a living bronze."

She had gone out to tea with him in a flat on the day her father's
sudden death had been announced in the papers. And yet she had pretended
that she was hovering on the verge of love for Alick Craven. She had
even implied that she was thinking of marrying him. Lady Sellingworth
saw Beryl as a treacherous lover, as well as an unkind friend and a
heartless daughter, and suddenly her anger against Craven died in pity.
She had believed for a little while that she hated him, but now she
longed to protect him from pain, to comfort him, to make him happy,
as surely she had once made him happy, if only for an hour or two. She
forgot her pride and her sense of injury in a sudden rush of feeling
that was new to her, that perhaps, really, had something of motherliness
in it. And she sat down quickly and wrote an acceptance to Mrs.
Ackroyde.

When Sunday came she felt excited and eager, absurdly so for a woman
of sixty. But her secret diffidence troubled her. She looked into her
mirror and thought of the piercing eyes of the "old guard," of those
merciless and horribly intelligent women who had marked with amazement
her sudden collapse into old age ten years ago, who would mark with a
perhaps even greater amazement this bizarre attempt at a partial return
towards what she had once been.

And what would Alick Craven think?

Nevertheless she put a little more red on her lips, called her maid, had
something done to her hair.

"It has been a great success!" said the little Frenchwoman. "Miladi
looks wonderful to-day. Black and white is much better than unrelieved
black for miladi. And the _soupcon_ of blue on the hat and in the
earrings of miladi lights up the whole personality. Miladi never did a
wiser thing than when she visited Switzerland."

"You think not, Cecile?"

"Indeed yes, miladi. There is no specialist even in Paris like Monsieur
Paulus. And as to the Doctor Lavallois, he is a marvel. Every woman who
is no longer a girl should go to him."

Lady Sellingworth picked up a big muff and went down to the motor,
leaving Cecile smiling behind her. As she disappeared down the stairs
Cecile, who was on the bright side of thirty, with a smooth, clear skin
and chestnut-coloured hair, pushed out her under-lip slowly and shook
her head.

"_La vieillesse!_" she murmured. "_La vieillesse amoureuse! Quelle
horreur!_"

Lady Sellingworth had never given the maid any confidence about her
secret reasons for doing this or that. But Cecile was a Parisian. She
fully understood the reason for their visit to Geneva. Miladi had fallen
in love.

Lady Sellingworth's excitement increased as she drove towards Coombe.
It was complicated by a feeling of shyness. To herself she said that she
was like an old debutante. She had been out of the world for so long,
and now she was venturing once more among the merciless women of the
world that never rests from amusing itself, from watching the lives of
others, from gossiping about them, from laughing at them. She had been a
leader of this world until she had denied it, had shut herself away from
it. And now she was venturing back--because of a man. As she drove on
swiftly through the wintry and dull-looking streets, streets that
seemed to grow meaner, more dingy, more joyless, as she drew near to the
outskirts of London, she looked back over the past. And she saw always
the same reason for the important actions of her life. All of them had
been committed because of a man. And now, even at sixty--Presently she
saw by the look of the landscape that she was nearing Coombe, and she
drew a little mirror out of her muff and gazed into it anxiously.

"What will they say? What will he think? What will happen to me to-day?"

The car turned into a big gravel sweep between tall, red-brick walls,
and drew up before Mrs. Ackroyde's door.

In the long drawing-room, with its four windows opening on to a terrace,
from which Coombe Woods could be seen sunk in the misty winter, Lady
Sellingworth found many cheerful people whom she knew. Mrs. Ackroyde
gave her blunt, but kindly, greeting, with her strange eyes, fierce and
remote, yet notably honest, taking in at a glance the results of Geneva.
Lady Wrackley was there in an astonishing black hat trimmed with bird
of paradise plumes. Glancing about her while she still spoke to Dindie
Ackroyde carelessly, Lady Sellingworth saw young Leving; Sir Robert
Syng; the Duchess of Wellingborough, shaking her broad shoulders and
tossing up her big chin as she laughed at some joke; Jennie Farringdon,
with her puffy pale cheeks and parrot-like nose, talking to old Hubert
Mostine, the man of innumerable weddings, funerals and charity fetes,
with his blinking eyelids and moustaches that drooped over a large and
gossiping mouth; Magdalen Dearing, whose Mona Lisa smile had attracted
three generations of men, and who had managed to look sad and be riotous
for at least four decades; Francis Braybrooke, pulling at his beard;
Mrs. Birchington; Lady Anne Smith, wiry, cock-nosed, brown, ugly, but
supremely smart and self-assured; Eve Colton, painted like a wall, and
leaning, with an old hand blazing with jewels, on a stick with a jade
handle; Mrs. Dews, the witty actress, with her white, mobile face, and
the large irresponsible eyes which laughed at herself, the critics and
the world; Lord Alfred Craydon, thin, high church and political, who
loved pretty women but receded farther and farther from marriage as
the years spun by; and Lady Twickenham, a French _poupee_; and Julian
Lamberhurst, the composer, who looked as if he had grown up to his six
foot four in one night, like the mustard seed; and Hilary Lane, the
friend of poets; and--how many more! For Dindie Ackroyde loved to gather
a crowd for lunch, and had a sort of physical love of noise and human
complications.

At the far end of the room there was a section which was raised a few
inches above the rest. Here stood two Steinway grand pianos, tail to
tail, their dark polished cases shining soberly in the pale light of
November. There were some deep settees on this species of dais, and,
looking towards it, over the heads of the crowd in the lower part of the
room, Lady Sellingworth saw Craven again.

He was sitting beside a pretty girl, whom Lady Sellingworth did not
know, and talking. His face looked hard and bored, but he was leaning
towards the girl as if trying to seem engrossed, intent, on the
conversation and on her.

Francis Braybrooke came up. Lady Sellingworth was busy, greeting and
being greeted. Once more she made part of the regiment. But the ranks
were broken. There was no review order here. Only for an instant had she
been aware of formality, of the "eyes right" atmosphere--when she had
entered the room. Then the old voices hummed about her. And she saw the
well-known and experienced eyes examining her. And she had to listen and
to answer, to be charming, to "hold her own."

"I'm putting Alick Craven next to you at lunch, Adela. I know you and he
are pals. He's over there with Lily Bright."

"And who is Lily Bright?" said Lady Sellingworth in her most offhand
way.

"A dear little New Englander, Knickerbocker to the bone."

She turned away composedly to meet another guest.

Francis Braybrooke began to talk to Lady Sellingworth, and almost
immediately Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Birchington joined them.

"How marvellous you look, Adela!" said Lady Wrackley, staring with her
birdlike eyes. "You will cut us all out. I must go to Geneva. Have
you heard about Beryl? But of course you have. She was so delighted
at coming into a fortune that she rushed away to Rose Tree Gardens to
celebrate the event with a man without even waiting till she had got her
mourning. Didn't she, Minnie?"

Francis Braybrooke was looking shocked.

"I cannot believe that Miss Van Tuyn--" he began.

But Mrs. Birchington interrupted him.

"But I was there!" she said.

"I beg your pardon!" said Braybrooke.

"It was the very day the death of her father was in the evening papers.
I came back from the club with the paper in my hand, and met Beryl Van
Tuyn getting out of the lift in Rose Tree Gardens with the man who lives
opposite to me. She absolutely looked embarrassed."

"Impossible!" said Lady Wrackley. "She couldn't!"

"I assure you she did! But she introduced me to him."

"She cannot have heard of her father's death," said Braybrooke.

"But she had! For I expressed my sympathy and she thanked me."

Braybrooke looked very ill at ease and glanced plaintively towards the
place where Craven was sitting with the pretty American.

"No doubt she had been to visit old friends," he said, "American
friends."

"But this man, Nicolas Arabian, lives alone in his flat. And I'm sure
he's not an American. Lady Archie has seen him several times with
Beryl."

"What's he like?" asked Lady Wrackley.

"Marvellously handsome! A _charmeur_ if ever there was one. Beryl
certainly had good taste, but--"

At this moment there was a general movement. The butler had murmured to
Mrs. Ackroyde that lunch was ready.

Lady Sellingworth was among the first few women who left the
drawing-room, and was sitting at a round table in the big,
stone-coloured dining-room when Baron de Melville, an habitue at Coombe,
bent over her.

"I'm lucky enough to be beside you!" he said. "This is a rare occasion.
One never meets you now."

He sat down on her right. The place on her left was vacant. People were
still coming in, talking, laughing, finding their seats. The Duchess of
Wellingborough, who was exactly opposite to Lady Sellingworth, leaned
forward to speak to her.

"Adela . . . Adela!"

"Yes? How are you, Cora?"

"Very well, as I always am. Isn't Lavallois a marvel?"

"He is certainly very clever."

"You are proud of it, my dear. Have you heard what the Bolshevist envoy
said to the Prime Minister when--"

But at this moment someone spoke to the duchess, who was already
beginning to laugh at the story she was intending to tell and Lady
Sellingworth was aware of a movement on her left. She felt as if she
blushed, though no colour came into her face.

"How are you, Lady Sellingworth?"

She had not turned her head, but now she did, and met Craven's hard,
uncompromising blue eyes and deliberately smiling lips.

"Oh, it's you! How nice!"

She gave him her hand. He just touched it coldly. What a boy he still
was in his polite hostility! She thought of Camber Sands and the
darkness falling over the waste, and, in spite of her self-control and
her pity for him, there was an unconquerable feeling of injury in her
heart. What reason, what right, had he to greet her so frigidly? How had
she injured him?

A roar of conversation had begun in the room. Everyone seemed in high
spirits. Mrs. Ackroyde, who was at the same table as Lady Sellingworth,
with Lord Alfred Craydon on her right and Sir Robert Syng on her
left, looked steadily round over the multitude of her guests with a
comprehensive glance, the analyzing and summing-up glance of one to whom
everything social was as an open book containing no secrets which her
eyes did not read. Those eyes travelled calmly, and presently came to
Craven and Adela Sellingworth. She smiled faintly and spoke to Robert
Syng.

"This is her second debut," she said. "I'm bringing her out again. They
are all amazed."

"What about?" said Sir Robert, in his grim and very masculine voice.

"Bobbie, you know as well as I do. I had a bet with Anne that she would
accept. I'm five pounds to the good. Adela is a creature of impulses,
and that sort of creature does young things to the day of its death."

"Is it doing a young thing to accept a luncheon invitation from you?"

"Yes--for _her_ reason."

"Well, that's beyond me."

"How indifferent you are!"

He looked at her in silence.

Lady Sellingworth talked to the baron till half-way through lunch.
He was a financier of rather obscure origin, long naturalized as an
Englishman, and ardently patriotic. The noble words "we British people"
were often upon his strangely foreign-looking lips. Many years ago
the "old guard" had taken him to their generous bosoms. For he was
enormously rich, and really not a bad sort. And he had been clever
enough to remain unmarried, so hope attended him with undeviating steps.

Miss Van Tuyn was presently the theme of his discourse. Evidently he did
not know anything about her and Alick Craven. For he discussed her and
her change of fortune without embarrassment or any _arriere pensee_,
and he, too, spoke of the visit to Rose Tree Gardens. Evidently all the
Coombe set was full of this mysterious visit, paid to an Adonis whom
nobody knew, in the shadow of a father's death.

The baron greatly admired Miss Van Tuyn, not only for her beauty but for
her daring. And he was not at all shocked at what she had done.

"She never lived with her father. Why should she pretend to be upset at
his death? The only difference it makes to her is an extremely agreeable
one. If she celebrates it by a mild revel over the tea cups with an
exceptionally good-looking man, who is to blame her? The fact is, we
Britishers are all moral humbugs. It seems to be in the blood," etc.

He ran on with wholly un-English vivacity about Beryl and her wonderful
man. Everybody wished to know who he was and all about him, but he
seemed to be a profound mystery. Even Minnie Birchington, who lived
opposite to him, knew little more than the rest of them. Since she had
been introduced to him she had never set eyes on him, although she
knew from her maid that he was still in the flat opposite, which he had
rented furnished for three months with an option for a longer period. He
had a Spanish manservant in the flat with him, but whether he, too, was
Spanish Mrs. Birchington did not know. Where had Beryl Van Tuyn picked
him up, and how had she come to know him so well? All the women were
asking these questions. And the men were intrigued because of the
report, carried by Lady Archie, and enthusiastically confirmed by Mrs.
Birchington, of the fellow's extraordinary good looks.

Lady Sellingworth listened to all this with an air of polite, but rather
detached, interest, wondering all the time whether Craven could overhear
what was being said. Craven was sometimes talking to his neighbour,
Mrs. Farringdon, but occasionally their conversation dropped, and Lady
Sellingworth was aware of his sitting in silence. She wished, and yet
almost feared, to talk to him, but she knew that she was interested in
no one else in the room. Now that she was again with Craven she realized
painfully how much she had missed him. Among all these people, many of
them talented, clever, even fascinating, she was only concerned about
him. To her he seemed almost like a vital human being in the midst of
a crowd of dummies endowed by some magic with the power of speech. She
only felt him at this moment, though she was conscious of the baron,
Mrs. Ackroyde, Bobbie Syng, the duchess, and others who were near her.
This silent boy--he was still a boy in comparison with her--crumbling
his bread, wiped them all out. Yet he was no cleverer than they were, no
more vital than they. And half of her almost hated him still.

"Oh, why do I worry about him?" she thought, while she leaned towards
the baron and looked energetically into his shifting dark eyes. "What
is there in him that holds me and tortures me? He's only an ordinary
man--horribly ordinary, I know that."

And she thought of Camber Sands and the twilight, and saw Craven
seeking for Beryl's hand--footman and housemaid. What had she, Adela
Sellingworth, with her knowledge and her past, her great burden of
passionate experiences--what had she to do with such an ordinary young
man?

"Nicolas might possibly be Greek or Russian. But what are we to make of
Arabian?"

It was still the voice of the Baron--full, energetic, intensely
un-English.

"Have you heard the name before, Lady Sellingworth?"

"Yes," she said.

"Really! What country does it belong to? Surely not to our England?"

"No."

Craven was not speaking at this moment, and she felt that he was
listening to them. She remembered how Beryl had hurt her and, speaking
with deliberate clearness, she added:

"Garstin, the painter, has had this man, Nicolas Arabian, as a sitter
for a long time, certainly for a good many weeks. And Beryl is just now
intensely interested in portrait painting."

"What--he's a model! But with a flat in Rose Tree Gardens!"

"He is evidently not an ordinary model. I believe Mr. Garstin picked
him up somewhere, saw him by chance, probably at the Cafe Royal or some
place of that kind, and asked him to sit."

"Do you know him?" asked the Baron, with sharp curiosity.

"Oh, no! I have never set eyes upon him. Beryl told me."

"Miss Van Tuyn! We all thought she was trying to keep the whole matter a
secret."

"Well, she told me quite openly. You were there, weren't you?"

She turned rather abruptly to Craven. He started.

"What? I beg your pardon. I didn't catch what you were saying."

"He's lying!" she thought.

The Baron was addressed by his neighbour, Magdalen Dearing, whose
husband he was supposed, perhaps quite wrongly, to finance, and Lady
Sellingworth was left free for a conversation with Craven.

"We were speaking about Beryl," she began.

Suddenly she felt hard, and she wanted to punish Craven, as we only wish
to punish those who can make us suffer because they have made us care
for them.

"It seems that--they are all saying--"

She paused. She wanted to repeat the scandalous gossip about Beryl's
visit to this mystery man, Arabian, immediately after her father's
death. But she could not do it. No, she could not punish him with such
a dirty weapon. He was worthy of polished steel, and this would be rusty
scrap-iron.

"It's nothing but stupid gossip," she said. "And you and I have never
dealt in that together, have we?"

"Oh, I enjoy hearing about my neighbours," he answered, "or I shouldn't
come here."

She felt a sharp thrust of disappointment. His voice was cold and full
of detachment; the glance of his blue eyes was hard and unrelenting. She
had never seen him like this till to-day.

"What are they saying about Miss Van Tuyn?" he added. "Anything
amusing?"

"No. And in any case it's not the moment to talk nonsense about her,
just when she is in deep mourning."

With an almost bitter smile she continued, after a slight hesitation:

"There is a close time for game during which the guns must be patient.
There ought to be a close time for human beings in sorrow. We ought not
to fire at them all the year round."

"What does it matter? They fire at us all the year round. The carnage is
mutual."

"Have you turned cynic?"

"I don't think I was ever a sentimentalist."

"Perhaps not. But must one be either the one or the other?"

"I am quite sure you are not the latter."

"I should be sorry to be the former," she said, with unusual
earnestness.

Something in his voice made her suddenly feel very sad, with a coldness
of sorrow that was like frost binding her heart. She looked across the
big table. A long window was opposite to her. Through it she saw distant
tree-tops rising into the misty grey sky. And she thought of the silence
of the bare woods, so near and yet so remote. Why was life so heartless?
Why could not he and she understand each other? Why had she nothing to
rest on? Winter! She had entered into her winter, irrevocable, cold and
leafless. But the longing for warmth would not leave her. Winter was
terrible to her, would always be terrible.

How the Duchess of Wellingborough was laughing! Her broad shoulders
shook. She threw up her chin and showed her white teeth. To her life
was surely a splendid game, even in widowhood and old age. The crowd was
enough for her. She fed on good stories. And so no doubt she would never
go hungry. For a moment Lady Sellingworth thought that she envied the
Duchess. But then something deep down in her knew it was not so. To need
much--that is greater and better, even if the need brings that sorrow
which perhaps many know nothing of. At that moment she connected desire
with aspiration, and felt released from her lowest part.

Craven was speaking to Mrs. Farringdon; Lady Sellingworth heard her
saying, in her curiously muffled, contralto voice:

"Old Bean is a wonderful horse. I fancy him for the next Derby. But
some people say he is not a stayer. On a hard course he might crack up.
Still, he's got a good deal of bone. The Farnham stable is absolutely
rotten at present. Don't go near it."

"Oh, why did I come?" Lady Sellingworth thought, as she turned again to
the Baron.

She had lost the habit of the world in her long seclusion. In her
retreat she had developed into a sentimentalist. Or perhaps she had
always been one, and old age had made the tendency more definite, had
fixed her in the torturing groove. She began to feel terribly out of
place in this company, but she knew that she did not look out of place.
She had long ago mastered the art of appearance, and could never forget
that cunning. And she gossiped gaily with the Baron until luncheon at
last was over.

As she went towards the drawing-room Mrs. Ackroyde joined her.

"You were rather unkind to Alick Craven, Adela," she murmured. "Has he
offended you?"

"On the contrary. I think he's a charming boy."

"Don't punish him all the afternoon then."

"But I am not going to be here all the afternoon. I have ordered the car
for half-past three."

"It's that now."

"Well, then I must be going almost directly."

"You must stay for tea. A lot of people are coming, and we shall have
music. Alick Craven only accepted because I told him you would be here."

"But you told me he had accepted when you asked me."

"That's how I do things when I really want people who may not want to
come. I lied to both of you, and here you both are."

"Well at any rate you are honest in confession."

"I will counterorder your car. Henry, please tell Lady Sellingworth's
chauffeur that he will be sent for when he is wanted. Oh, Anne, welcome
the wandering sheep back to the social fold!"

She threaded her way slowly through the crowd, talking calmly to one and
another, seeing everything, understanding everything, tremendously at
home in the midst of complications.

Lady Sellingworth talked to Lady Anne, who had just come back from
Mexico. It was her way to dart about the world, leaving her husband
in his arm-chair at the Marlborough. She brought gossip with her from
across the seas, gossip about exotic Presidents and their mistresses,
about revolutionary generals and explorers, about opera singers in
Havana, and great dancers in the Argentine. In her set she was called
"the peripatetic pug," but she had none of the pug's snoring laziness.
Presently someone took her away to play bridge, and for a moment Lady
Sellingworth was standing alone. She was close to a great window which
gave on to the terrace at the back of the house facing the falling
gardens and the woods. She looked out, then looked across the room.
Craven was standing near the door. He had just come in with a lot of
men from the dining-room. He had a cigar in his hand. His cheeks were
flushed. He looked hot and drawn, like a man in a noisy prison of
heat which excited him, but tormented him too. His eyes shone almost
feverishly. As she looked at him, not knowing that he was being watched
he drew a long breath, almost like a man who feared suffocation.
Immediately afterwards he glanced across the room and saw her.

She beckoned to him. With a reluctant air, and looking severe, he came
across to her.

"Are you going to play bridge?" she said.

"I don't think so."

"Dindie has persuaded me to stay on for the music. Shall we take a
little walk in the garden? I am so unaccustomed to crowds that I am
longing for air."

She paused, then added:

"And a little quiet."

"Certainly," he said stiffly.

"Does he hate me?" she thought, with a sinking of despair. He went to
fetch her wrap. They met in the hall.

"Where are you two going?"

Dindie Ackroyde's all-seeing eyes had perceived them.

"Only to get a breath of air in the garden," said Lady Sellingworth.

"How sensible!"

She gave them a watchful smile and spoke to Eve Colton, who was hunting
for the right kind of bridge, stick in hand.

"I'll find Melville for you. Jennie and Sir Arthur are waiting in the
card-room."

"I hope you don't mind coming out for a moment?"

Lady Sellingworth's unconquerable diffidence was persecuting her. She
spoke almost with timidity to Craven on the doorstep.

"Oh, no. I am delighted."

His young voice was carefully frigid.

"More motors!" she said. "The whole of London will be here by tea time."

"Great fun, isn't it? Such a squash of interesting people."

"And I am taking you away from them!"

"That's all right!"

"Oh, what an Eton's boy's voice!" she thought.

But she loved it. That was the truth. His youngness was so apparent
in his coldness that he was more dangerous than ever to her who had an
unconquerable passion for youth.

"Let us go through this door in the wall. It must lead to the gardens."

"Certainly!"

He pushed it open. They passed through and were away from the motors,
standing on a broad terrace which turned at right angles and skirted the
back of the house.

"Don't let us go round the corner before all the drawing-room windows."

"No?" he said.

"Unless you prefer--"

"I will go wherever you like."

"I thought--what about this path?"

"Shall we do down it?"

"I think it looks rather tempting."

They walked slowly on, descending a slight incline, and came to a second
long terrace on a lower level. There was a good deal of brick-work in
Mrs. Ackroyde's garden, but there were some fine trees, and in summer
the roses were wonderful. Now there were not many flowers, but at least
there were calm and silence, and the breath of the winter woods came to
Lady Sellingworth and Craven.

Craven said nothing, and walked stiffly beside his companion looking
straight ahead. He seemed entirely unlike the man who had talked so
enthusiastically in her drawing-room after the dinner in the _Bella
Napoli_, and again on that second evening when they had dined together
without the company of Beryl Van Tuyn. But Dindie Ackroyde had said he
had come down that day because he had been told he would meet her. And
Dindie was scarcely ever wrong about people. But this time surely she had
made a mistake.

"Oh, there's the hard court!" Lady Sellingworth said.

"Yes."

"It looks a beauty."

"Do you play?"

"I used to. But I have given it up."

After a silence she added:

"You know I have given up everything. There comes a time--"

She hesitated.

"Perhaps you will not believe it, but I feel very strange here with all
these people."

"But you know them all, don't you?"

"Nearly all. But they mean nothing to me now."

They were walking slowly up and down the long terrace.

"One passes away from things," she said, "as one goes on. It is rather a
horrible feeling."

Suddenly, moved by an impulse that was almost girlish, she stopped on
the path and said:

"What is the matter with you to-day? Why are you angry with me?"

Craven flushed.

"Angry! But I am not angry!"

"Yes, you are. Tell me why."

"How could I--I'm really not angry. As if I could be angry with you!"

"Then why are you so different?"

"In what way am I different?"

She did not answer, but said:

"Did you hear what the baron and I were talking about at lunch?"

"Just a few words."

"I hope you didn't think I wished to join in gossip about Beryl Van
Tuyn?"

"Of course not."

"I hate all such talk. If that offended you--"

She was losing her dignity and knew it, but a great longing to overcome
his rigidity drove her on.

"If you think--"

"It wasn't that!" he said. "I have no reason to mind what anyone says
about Miss Van Tuyn."

"But she's your friend!"

"Is she? I think a friend is a very rare thing. You have taught me
that."

"I? How?"

"You went abroad without letting me know."

"Is that it?" she said.

And there was a strange note, like a note of joy, in her voice.

"I think you might have told me. And you put me off. I was to have seen
you--"

"Yes, I know."

She was silent. She could not explain. That was impossible. Yet she
longed to tell him how much she had wished to see him, how much it had
cost her to go without a word. But suddenly she remembered Camber.
He was angry with her, but he had very soon consoled himself for her
departure.

"I went away quite unexpectedly," she said. "I had to go like that."

"I--I hope you weren't ill?"

He recalled Braybrooke's remarks about doctors. Perhaps she had really
been ill. Perhaps something had happened abroad, and he had done her a
wrong.

"No, I haven't been ill. It wasn't that," she said.

The thought of Camber persisted, and now persecuted her.

"I am quite sure you didn't miss me," she said, with a colder voice.

"But I did!" he said.

"For how long?"

The mocking look he knew so well had come into her eyes. How much did
she know?

"Have you seen Miss Van Tuyn since you came back?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. She paid me a visit soon after I arrived."

Craven looked down. He realized that something had been said, that Miss
Van Tuyn had perhaps talked injudiciously. But even if she had, why
should Lady Sellingworth mind? His relation with her was so utterly
different from his relation with the lovely American. It never occurred
to him that this wonderful elderly woman, for whom he had such a
peculiar feeling, could care for him at all as a girl might, could think
of him as a woman thinks of a man with whom she might have an affair of
the heart. She fascinated him. Yes! But she did not fascinate that part
of him which instinctively responded to Beryl Van Tuyn. And that he
fascinated her in any physical way simply did not enter his mind.
Nevertheless, at that moment he felt uncomfortable and, absurdly enough,
almost guilty.

"Have you seen Beryl since her father's death?" said Lady Sellingworth.

"No," he said. "At least--yes, I suppose I have."

"You suppose?"

Her eyes had not lost their mocking expression.

"I happened to see her in Glebe Place with that fellow they are all
chattering about, but I didn't speak to her. I believe her father was
dead then. But I didn't know it at the time."

"Oh! Is he so very handsome, as they say?"

She could not help saying this, and watching him as she said it.

"I should say he was a good-looking chap," answered Craven frigidly.
"But he looks like a wrong 'un."

"It is difficult to tell what people are at a glance."

"Some people--yes. But I think with others one look is enough."

"Yes, that's true," she said, thinking of him. "Shall we go a little
farther towards the woods?"

"Yes; let us."

She knew he was suffering obscurely that day, perhaps in his pride,
perhaps in something else. She hoped it was in his pride. Anyhow, she
felt pity for him in her new-found happiness. For she was happier now in
comparison with what she had been. And with that happiness came a great
longing to comfort him, to draw him out of his cold reserve, to turn him
into the eager and almost confidential boy he had been with her. As they
passed the red tennis court and walked towards the end of the garden
which skirted the woods she said:

"I want you to understand something. I know it must have seemed
unfriendly in me to put you off, and then to leave England without
letting you know. But I had a reason which I can't explain."

"Yes?"

"I shall never be able to explain it. But if I could you would realize
at once that my friendship for you was unaltered."

"Well, but you didn't let me know you were back. You did not ask me to
come to see you."

"I did not think you would care to come."

"But--why?"

"I--perhaps you--I don't find it easy now to think that anyone can care
much to be bothered with me."

"Oh--Lady Sellingworth!"

"That really is the truth. Believe it or not, as you like. You see, I am
out of things now."

"You need never be out of things unless you choose."

"Oh, the world goes on and leaves one behind. Don't you remember my
telling you and Beryl once that I was an Edwardian?"

"If that means un-modern I think I prefer it to modernity. I think
perhaps I have an old-fashioned soul."

He was smiling now. The hard look had gone from his eyes; the ice in his
manner had melted. She felt that she was forgiven. And she tried to put
the thought of Camber out of her mind. Beryl was unscrupulous. Perhaps
she had exaggerated. And, in any case, surely she had treated, was
treating, him badly.

She felt that he and she were friends again, that he was glad to be with
her once more. There was really a link of sympathy between them. And
he had been angry because she had gone abroad without telling him. She
thought of his anger and loved it.

That day, after tea, while the music was still going on in Dindie
Ackroyde's drawing-room, they drove back to London together, leaving
their reputations quite comfortably behind them in the hand of the "old
guard."

CHAPTER II

Beryl Van Tuyn found that it was not necessary for her to cross the
ocean on account of her father's sudden death. He had left all his
affairs in excellent order, and the chief part of his fortune was
bequeathed to her. She had always had plenty of money. Now she was rich.
She went into mourning, answered suitably the many letters of condolence
that poured in upon her, and then considered what she had better do.

Miss Cronin pleaded persistently for an immediate return to Paris.
What was the good of staying on in London now? The winter was dreary
in London. The flat in Paris was far more charming and elegant than
any hotel. Beryl had all her lovely things about her there. Her chief
friends were in Paris. She could see them quietly at home. And it was
quite impossible for her to go about London now that she was plunged
in mourning. What would they do there? She, Miss Cronin, could go on as
usual, of course. She never did anything special. But Beryl would surely
be bored to death living the life of a hermit in Claridge's.

Miss Van Tuyn listened to all that old Fanny had to say, and made no
attempt to refute her arguments or reply to her exhortations. She merely
remarked that she would think the matter over.

"But what is there to think over, darling?" said Miss Cronin, lifting
her painted eyebrows. "There is nothing to keep us here. You never go to
the Wallace Collection now."

"Do please allow me to be the judge of what I want to do with my life,
Fanny," said Miss Van Tuyn, curtly. "When I wish to pack up I'll tell
you."

And old Fanny collapsed like a pricked bladder. She could not understand
Beryl any longer. The girl seemed to be quite beyond her reach. She
thought of Alick Craven and of the man in the blue overcoat with the
strange name. Nicolas Arabian. She had seen neither of them again. Beryl
never mentioned them. But Fanny was sure that one, or both, of them held
her in London. Something must be in the wind, something dangerous to any
companion. She felt on the threshold of an alarming, perhaps disastrous,
change. As she went nowhere she knew nothing of Beryl's visit to Rose
Tree Gardens and of the gossip it had set going in certain circles in
London. But she had never been able to forget the impression she had had
when Beryl had introduced her to the man with the melting brown eyes.
Beryl was surely in love. Yet she did not look happy. Certainly her
father's death might have upset her. But Miss Cronin did not think that
was sufficient to account for the change in the girl. She had something
on her mind besides that. Miss Cronin was certain of it. Beryl's cool
self-assurance was gone. She was restless. She brooded. She seemed quite
unable to settle to anything or to come to any decision.

Old Fanny began to be seriously alarmed. Mrs. Clem Hodson had gone back
to Philadelphia. She had no one to consult, no one to apply to. She felt
quite helpless. Even Bourget could give her no solace. She had a weak
imagination, but it now began to trouble her. As she lay upon her sofa,
she, always feebly, imagined many things. But oftenest she saw a vague
vision of Mr. Craven and Mr. Arabian fighting a duel because of Beryl.
They were in a forest clearing near Paris in early morning. It was a
duel with revolvers, as Bourget might have described it. She saw their
buttoned-up coats, their stretched-out arms. Which did she wish to be
the victor? And which would Beryl wish to return unwounded to Paris?
Surely Mr. Arabian. He was so kind, so enticingly gentle; he had such
beautiful eyes. And yet--and at this point old Fanny's imagination
ceased to function, and something else displayed a certain amount of
energy, her knowledge of the world. What would Mr. Arabian be like as a
husband? He was charming, seductive even, caressingly sympathetic--yes,
caressingly! But--as a husband? And old Fanny felt mysteriously that
something in her recoiled from the idea of Arabian as the husband of
Beryl, whereas she could think of Mr. Craven in that situation quite
calmly. It was all very odd, and it made her very uncomfortable. It even
agitated her, and she felt her solitude keenly. There had never been
a real link between Beryl and her, and she knew it. But now she felt
herself strangely alone in the midst of perhaps threatening dangers. If
only Beryl would become frank, would speak out, would consult her, ask
her advice! But the girl was enclosed in a reserve that was flawless.
There was not a single breach in the wall. And the dark winter had
descended on London.

One evening Miss Van Tuyn felt almost desperate. Enclosed in her reserve
she longed for a confidante; she longed to talk things over, to take
counsel with someone. She had even a desire to ask for advice. But she
knew no one in London to whom she could unbosom herself. Fanny did not
count. Old Fanny was a fool and quite incapable of being useful mentally
to anyone with good brains. And to what other woman could she speak,
she, Beryl Van Tuyn, the notoriously clever, notoriously independent,
young beauty, who had always hitherto held the reins of her own destiny?
If only she could speak to a man! But there the sex question intruded
itself. No man would be impartial unless he were tremendously old. And
she had no tremendously old man friend, having always preferred those
who were still in possession of all their faculties.

No young man could be impartial, least of all Alick Craven, and yet she
wished intensely that she had not lost her head that day in Glebe Place,
that she had carried out her original intention and had introduced
Craven to Arabian.

She knew what people were saying of her in London. Although she was in
deep mourning and could not go about, several women had been to see her.
They had come to condole with her, and had managed to let her understand
what people were murmuring. Lady Archie had been with her. Mrs.
Birchington had looked in. And two days after Lady Sellingworth's visit
to Coombe Dindie Ackroyde had called. From her Miss Van Tuyn had
heard of Craven's walk in the garden with Adela Sellingworth and early
departure to London in Adela's motor. In addition to this piece of
casually imparted news, Mrs. Ackroyde had frankly told Miss Van Tuyn
that she was being gossiped about in a disagreeable way and that, in
spite of her established reputation for unconventionality, she ought to
be more careful. And Miss Van Tuyn--astonishingly--had not resented
this plain speaking. Mrs. Ackroyde, of course, had tried to find out
something about Nicolas Arabian, but Miss Van Tuyn had evaded the not
really asked questions, and had treated the whole matter with an almost
airy casualness which had belied all that was in her mind.

But these visits, and especially Dindie Ackroyde's, had deepened the
nervous pre-occupation which was beginning seriously to alarm old Fanny.

If she took old Fanny's advice and left London? If she returned to
Paris? She believed, indeed she felt certain, that to do that would not
be to separate from Arabian. He would follow her there. If she took the
wings of the morning and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth there
surely she would find him. She began to think of him as a hound on
the trail of her. And yet she did not want him to lose the trail. She
combined fear with desire in a way that was inexplicable to herself,
that sometimes seemed to her like a sort of complex madness. But her
reason for remaining in London was not to be found in Arabian's presence
there. And she knew that. If she went to Paris she would be separated
from Alick Craven. She did not want to be separated from him. And
now Dindie Ackroyde's news intensified her reluctance to yield to old
Fanny's persuasions and to return to her bronzes. Her clever visit to
Adela Sellingworth had evidently not achieved its object. In spite of
her so deliberate confession to Adela the latter had once more taken
possession of Craven.

Miss Van Tuyn felt angry and disgusted, even indignant, but she also
felt saddened and almost alarmed.

Knowing men very well, being indeed an expert in male psychology, she
realized that perhaps, probably even, her own action had driven Craven
back to his friendship with Adela. But that fact did not make things
more pleasant for her. She knew that she had seriously offended Craven.
She remembered the look in his face was he passed quickly by her and
Arabian in Glebe Place. He had not been to see her since, and had not
written to condole with her. She knew that she had outraged his pride,
and perhaps something else. Yet she could not make up her mind to leave
England and drop out of his life. To do that would be like a confession
of defeat. But it was not only her vanity which prompted her to stay on.
She had a curious and strong liking for Craven which was very sincere.
It was absolutely unlike the painful attraction which pushed her towards
Arabian. There was trust in it, a longing for escape from something
dangerous, something baleful, into peace and security. There was even a
moral impulse in it such as she had never felt till now.

What was she to do? She suffered in uncertainty. Her nerves were all
on edge. She felt irritable, angry, like someone being punished and
resenting the punishment. And she felt horribly dull. Her mourning
prohibited her from seeking distractions. People were gossiping about
her unpleasantly already. She remembered Dindie Ackroyde's warning, and
knew she had better heed it. She felt heartless because she was unable
to be really distressed about the death of her father. Old Fanny bored
her when she did not actively worry her. She was terribly sorry for
herself.

In the evening, while she was sitting alone in her room listlessly
reading a book on modern painting by an author with whose views she did
not agree, and looking forward to a probably sleepless night, there
was a knock on the door, and a rose cheeked page boy, all alertness and
buttons, tripped in with a note on a salver.

"Any answer?" she said.

"No, mum."

She took the note, and at once recognized Dick Garstin's enormous
handwriting. Quickly she opened it and read.

GLEBE.

Wed.

Dear B.--Does your mourning prevent you from looking at a damned good
picture? If not, come round to the studio to-morrow any time after lunch
and have a squint at a king in the underworld.

D. G.

At once her feeling of acute boredom left her, was replaced by a keen
sense of excitement. She realized immediately that at last Garstin had
finished his picture, that at last he had satisfied himself. She had not
seen Garstin since the day when she had heard of her father's death.
Nor had she seen Arabian. Characteristically, Garstin had not taken
the trouble to send her a letter of condolence. He never bothered to
do anything conventional. If he had written he would probably had
congratulated her on coming into a fortune. Arabian's sympathy had
already been expressed. Naturally, therefore, he had not written to her.
But he had made no sign in all these days, had not left a card, had not
attempted to see her. Day after day she had wondered whether he would
do something, give some evidence of life, of intention. Nothing! He had
just let her alone. But in his inaction she had felt him intensely,
far more than she felt other men in their actions. He had, as it were,
surrounded her with his silence, had weighed upon her by his absence.
She feared and was fascinated by his apparent indifference, as formerly,
when with him, she had feared and been fascinated by his reticence of
speech and of conduct. Only once had he taken the initiative with her,
when he had ordered the taxi-cab driver to go to Rose Tree Gardens.
And even then, when he had had her there alone in his flat, nothing had
happened. And he had let her go without any attempt to detain her.

In his passivity there was something hypnotic which acted upon her. She
felt it charged with power, with intention, even almost with brutality.
There was a great cry for her in his silence.

She did not answer Garstin's note. That was not necessary. She knew she
would see him on the morrow.

Directly after lunch on the following day she walked to Glebe Place,
wondering whether Arabian would be there.

As usual, Garstin answered the door and covered her with a comprehensive
glance as she stood on the doorstep.

"Black suits you," he said. "You ought never to go out of mourning."

"Thank you for your kind sympathy, Dick," she answered. "One can
always depend on you for delicacy of feeling and expression in time of
trouble."

He smiled as he shut the door.

"You tartar!" he said. "Be careful you don't develop into a shrew as you
get on in life."

She noticed at once that he was looking unusually happy. There was even
something almost of softness in his face, something almost of kindness,
certainly of cordiality, in his eyes.

"Evidently coming into money hasn't had a softening influence upon you,"
he added.

To her surprise he took her into the ground floor studio and sat down on
the big divan there.

"Aren't we going upstairs?" she said.

"In a minute. Don't be in such a blasted hurry, my girl!"

"Well, but--"

She followed his example and sat down.

"Is anyone up there?"

"Not a soul. Who should there be?"

"Well, I don't know. I thought perhaps--"

"Old Nick was there? Well, he isn't!"

"How absurd you are!" she said, almost with confusion, and looking away
from him. "I only wondered whether you had a model with you."

"I know, I know!"

After a rather long pause she said:

"What are we waiting here for?"

"Oh--just to rest!"

"But I'm not tired."

"I didn't suppose you were."

Again there was a pause, in which Miss Van Tuyn felt a tingling of
impatient irritation.

"I suppose you are doing this merely to whet my appetite," she said
presently, unable to bear the unnatural silence. "Of course I know you
have finished the picture at last. You have asked me to come here to
see it. Then why on earth not let me see it? All this waiting can't come
from timidity. I know you don't care for opinion so long as your own is
satisfied."

He sent her an odd look that was almost boyish in its half mischievous,
half wistful roguishness.

"My girl, you speak about a painter with great assurance, and, let me
add, with great ignorance. I'll tell you the plain truth for once. I've
been keeping you down here out of sheer diffidence. Now then!"

"Dick!"

His lean blue cheeks slightly reddened as he looked at her. She knew he
had spoken the truth, and was touched. She got up quickly, went to him,
and put one hand on his shoulder.

"You are afraid of me! But no--I can't believe it!"

"Ha!"

He got up.

"It is finished?"

"Yes, at last it's done."

"Has--have you shown--I suppose he has seen it?"

Garstin shook his head, and a dark lock of hair fell over his forehead.

"He doesn't even know it is finished, the ruffian! He's given me a
damned lot of trouble. I'll keep him on the gridiron a bit longer.
Grilling will do him good."

"Then I am the first?"

"Yes, you are the first."

"Thank you, Dick," she said soberly. "May I go up now?"

"Yes, come on!"

He went before her and mounted the stairs, taking long strides. She
followed him eagerly, yet with a feeling of apprehension. What would
it be--this portrait finished at last? Dick Garstin was cruelly fond of
revelation. She thought of his judge who ought to be judged, of other
pictures of his. Had he caught and revealed the secret of Arabian?

"Now then!"

But Garstin still hesitated.

"Sit here!"

She obeyed, and sat down on a sofa with the window behind her.

"I'll have a smoke."

"Oh!"

He went to the Spanish cabinet, and stood with his back to her,
apparently searching. He lifted things, put them back. She glowed with
almost furious impatience. At last he found the cigars. Probably he had
never had to seek for them. He lit up.

"Now then--a drink!"

"Oh, Dick!" she breathed.

But she made no other protest.

"Will you?"

"No!" she said sharply.

Then she gazed at him and said:

"Yes."

He poured out whisky for her and himself, added some soda water, and
lifted his glass.

"To Arabian!" he said.

"Why should we drink to Mr. Arabian?"

"He has done me a good turn."

There was a look in his eyes now which she did not like, a very
intelligent and cruel look. She knew it well. It expressed almost
blatantly the man's ruthlessness. She did not inquire what the good turn
was, but raised her glass slowly and drank.

"Your hand trembles, my girl!" said Garstin.

"Nonsense! It does not! Now please show me the portrait. I will not wait
any longer."

"Here you are then!"

He went over to a distant easel, pulled it forward with its back to
them, then, when it was near to the sofa, turned it round.

"There he is!"

Miss Van Tuyn sat very still and gazed. After turning the easel Dick
Garstin had gone to stand behind the sofa and her. She heard him making
a little "t'p! t'p!" with his lips, getting rid, perhaps, of an adherent
scrap of tobacco leaf. After what seemed to both of them a very long
time she spoke.

"I don't believe it!" she said. "I don't believe it!"

"Like the man when he saw a giraffe for the first time? But he was
wrong, my girl, for nature does turn out giraffes."

"No, Dick! It's too bad!"

Her cheeks were flaming with red.

"Too bad! Don't you think it's well painted?"

"Well painted? Of course it's well--it's magnificently painted!"

He chuckled contentedly behind her.

"Then what's the matter? What's the trouble?"

"You know what's the matter. You know quite well."

She turned sharply round on the sofa and faced him with angry eyes.

"There was a great actor once whose portrait was painted by a great
artist, an artist as great as you are. It was exhibited and then handed
over to the actor. From that moment it disappeared. No one ever saw it.
The actor never mentioned it. And yet it was a masterpiece. When the
actor died a search was made for the portrait, and it was found hidden
in an attic of his house. It had been slashed almost to pieces with
a knife. Till to-day I could not understand such a deed as that--the
killing of a masterpiece. But now I can understand it."

"He shall have it and put a knife through it if he likes. But"--he
snapped out the word with sudden fierce emphasis--"_but_ I'll exhibit it
first."

"He'll never let you!" Miss Van Tuyn almost cried out.

"Won't he? That was the bargain!"

"He didn't promise. I remember quite well all that was said. He didn't
promise."

"It was understood. I told him I should exhibit the picture and that
afterwards I'd hand it over to him."

"When is he going to see it?"

"Why do you ask? Do you want to be here when he does?"

She did not answer. She was staring at the portrait, and now the hot
colour had faded from her face.

"If you do you can be here. I don't mind."

"I don't believe it," she repeated slowly.

All that she had sometimes fancied, almost dimly, and feared about
Arabian was expressed in Garstin's portrait of him. The man was
magnificent on the canvas, but he was horrible. Evil seemed to be subtly
expressed all over him. That was what she felt. It looked out of his
large brown eyes. But that was not all. Somehow, in some curious and
terrible way, Garstin had saturated his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead,
even his bare neck and shoulders with the hideous thing. Danger was
everywhere, the warning that the living man surely did not give, or only
gave now and then for a fleeting instant.

In Garstin's picture Arabian was unmistakably a being of the underworld,
a being of the darkness, of secret places and hidden deeds, a being of
unspeakable craft, of hideous knowledge, of ferocious cynicism. And yet
he was marvellously handsome and full of force, even of power. It could
not be said that great intellect was stamped on his face, but a fiercely
vital mentality was there, a mentality that could frighten and subdue,
that could command and be sure of obedience. In the eyes of a tiger
there is a terrific mentality. Miss Van Tuyn thought of that as she
gazed at the portrait.

In her silence now she was trying to get a strong hold on herself. The
first shock of astonishment, and almost of horror, had passed. She was
more sharply conscious now of Garstin in connexion with herself. At last
she spoke again.

"Of course you realize, Dick, that such a portrait as that is an
outrage. It's a master work, I believe, but it is an outrage. You cannot
exhibit it."

"But I shall. This man, Arabian, isn't known."

"How can we tell that?"

"Do you know a living creature he knows or who knows him?"

"Everyone has acquaintances. Everyone almost has friends. He must
certainly have both."

"God knows who or where they are."

"You cannot exhibit it," she repeated obstinately.

"I hate art in kid gloves. But this is too merciless. It is more. It is
a libel."

"That's just where you're wrong."

"No."

"Beryl, my girl, you are lying. That's no use with me."

"I am not lying!" she said with hot anger.

Suddenly she felt that tears had come into her eyes.

"How hateful you are!" she exclaimed.

She felt frightened under the eyes of the portrait. Garstin's revelation
had struck upon her like a blow. She felt dazed by it. Yet she longed
to hit back. She wanted to defend Arabian, perhaps because she felt that
she needed defence.

Garstin came abruptly round the sofa and sat down by her side.

"What's up?" he said in a kinder voice.

"Why do you paint like that? It's abominable!"

"Tell me the honest truth--God's own truth, as they call it, I don't
know why--is that picture fine, is it my best work, or isn't it?"

"I've told you already. It's a technical masterpiece and a moral
outrage. You have taken a man for a model and painted a beast."

"Beryl," he said almost solemnly, "believe it or not, as you can, that
_is_ Arabian!"

He pointed at the picture as he spoke. His keen eyes, half shut, were
fixed upon it.

"That _is_ the real man, and what you see is only the appearance he
chooses to give of himself."

"How do you know? How can you know that?"

"Haven't I the power to show men and women as in essence they are?"

His eyes travelled round the big studio slowly, travelled from canvas to
canvas, from the battered old siren of the streets to the girl who was
dreaming of sins not yet committed; from Cora waiting for her prey to
the judge who had condemned his.

"Haven't I? And don't you know it?"

"You are wrong this time," she said with mutinous determination, but
still with the tears in her eyes. "You couldn't sum up Arabian. You
tried and tried again. And now at last you have forced yourself to paint
him. You have got angry. That's it. You have got furious with yourself
and with him, because of your own impotence, and you have painted him in
a passion."

"Oh, no!"

He shook his head.

"I never felt colder, more completely master of myself and my passions,
than when I painted that portrait."

"But you asked me to find out his secret. You pushed me into his company
that I might find it out and help you."

"I did!"

"Well!" she said, almost triumphantly, "I have never found it out."

"Oh, yes, you have."

"No. He is the most reserved, uncommunicative man I have ever known."

"Subconsciously you have found it out, and you have conveyed it to me.
And that is the result. I suspected what the man was the first time I
laid eyes on him. When I got him here I seemed to get off the track of
him. For he's very deceptive--somehow. Yes, he's damned deceptive. But
then you put me wise. Your growing terror of him put me wise."

He looked hard into her eyes.

"Beryl, my girl, your sex has intuitions. One of them, one of yours, I
have painted. And there it is!"

The bell sounded below.

"Ha!" said Garstin, turning his head sharply.

He listened for an instant. Then he said:

"I'll bet you anything you like that's the king himself."

"The king?"

"In the underworld. Did you walk here?"

"Yes."

"He must have seen you. He's followed you. What a lark!"

His eyes shone with a sort of malicious glee.

"There goes the bell again! Beryl, I'll have him up. We'll show him
himself."

He put a finger to his lips and went down, leaving her alone with the
portrait.

"Come up! Come up, my boy! I've something to show you!"

She heard steps mounting the stairs, and got up from the sofa. She
looked once more at the portrait, then turned round to meet the two men,
standing so that she was directly in front of it. Just then she had a
wish to conceal it from Arabian, to delay, if only for a moment, his
knowledge of what had been done.

Arabian came into the studio and saw her in her mourning facing him. At
once he came up to her with Dick Garstin behind him. He looked grave,
sympathetic, almost reverential. His brown eyes held a tender expression
of kindness.

"Miss Van Tuyn! I did not know you were here."

She saw Garstin smiling ironically. Arabian took her hand and pressed
it.

"I am glad to see you again."

His look, his pressure, were full of ardent sympathy.

"I have been thinking often of you and your great sorrow."

"Thank you!" she said, almost stammering.

"And what is it I am to see?" said Arabian, turning to Garstin.

"Stand away, Beryl!" said Garstin roughly.

She moved. What else could she do? Arabian saw the portrait and said:

"Oh, my picture at last!"

Then he took a step forward, and there was a silence in the studio.

Miss Van Tuyn looked at the floor at first. Then, as the silence
continued, she raised her eyes to Arabian's. She did not know what she
expected to see, but she was surprised at what she did see. Standing
quite still immediately in front of the picture, with his large eyes
fixed upon it, Arabian was looking very calm. There was, indeed,
scarcely any expression in his face. He had thrust both hands into the
pockets of his overcoat. Miss Van Tuyn wondered whether those hands
would betray any feeling if she could see them. In the calmness of his
face she thought there was something stony, but she was not quite sure.
She was, perhaps, too painfully moved, too violently excited just then
to be a completely accurate observer. And she was aware of that. She
wished Arabian would speak. When was he going to speak?

"Well?" said Garstin at last, perhaps catching her feeling. "What do
you think of the thing? Are you satisfied with it? I've been a long time
over it, but there it is at last."

He laughed slightly, uneasily, she thought.

"What's the verdict?"

"One moment--please!" said Arabian in an unusually soft voice.

Miss Van Tuyn was again struck, as she had been struck, when she first
met Arabian in the studio, by the man's enormous self-possession. She
felt sure that he must be feeling furiously angry, yet he did not show a
trace of anger, of surprise, of any emotion. Only the marked softness of
his voice was unusual. He seemed to be examining the picture with quiet
interest and care.

"Well? Well?" said Garstin at last, with a sort of acute impatience
which betrayed to her that he was really uneasy. "Let's hear what you
think, though we know you don't set up for being a judge of painting."

"I think it is very like," said Arabian.

"Oh, Lord--like!" exclaimed Garstin, on an angry gust of breath. "I'm
not a damned photographer!"

"Should not a portrait be like?" said Arabian, still in the very soft
voice. "Am I wrong, then?"

"Of course not!" said Miss Van Tuyn, frowning at Garstin.

At that moment absolutely, and without any reserve, she hated him.