e that I only knew
they were old enough to remember Lady Sellingworth when she was still a
reigning beauty. I implied that _they_ were buds then."

"And they accepted the implication?"

"Oh, they are women of the world! They just swallowed it very quietly,
as a well-bred person swallows a small easy-going bonbon."

Craven could not help laughing. As he did so he saw in Miss Van Tuyn's
eyes the thought:

"You think me witty, and you're not far out."

"And did you glean any knowledge of Lady Sellingworth?" he asked.

"Oh, yes; quite a good deal. Mrs. Ackroyde showed me a photograph of her
as she was about eleven years ago."

"A year before the plunge!"

"Yes. She looked very handsome in the photograph. Of course, it was
tremendously touched up. Still, it gave me a real idea of what she must
once have been. But, oh! how she has changed!"

"Naturally!"

"I mean in expression. In the photograph she looks vain, imperious. Do
you know how a woman looks who is always on the watch for new lovers?"

"Well--yes, I think perhaps I do."

"Lady Sellingworth in the photograph has that on the pounce expression."

"That's rather awful, isn't it?"

"Yes; because, of course, one can see she isn't really at all young.
It's only a _fausse jeunesse_ after all, but still very effective. The
gap between the woman of the photograph and the woman of 18A Berkeley
Square is as the gulf between Dives and Lazarus. I shouldn't have loved
her then. But perhaps--perhaps a man might have thought he did. I mean
in the real way of a man--perhaps."

Craven did not inquire what Miss Van Tuyn meant exactly by that.
Instead, he asked:

"And did these ladies of the 'old guard' speak kindly of the
white-haired traitress?"

"They were careful. But I gathered that Lady Sellingworth had been for
years and years one of those who go on their way chanting, 'Let us eat,
drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' I gathered, too, that her
efforts were chiefly concentrated on translating into appropriate action
the third 'let us.' But that no doubt was for the sake of her figure
and face. Lady Archie said that the motto of Lady Sellingworth's life
at that period was 'after me the deluge,' and that she had so dinned it
into the ears of her friends that when she let her hair grow white they
all instinctively put up umbrellas."

"And yet the deluge never came."

"It never does. I could almost wish it would."

"Now?"

"No; after me."

He looked