ther than in attraction to her whom Braybrooke had called
"the most charming _old_ woman in London."

Presently Miss Van Tuyn, turning three-quarters face, sent him a
"coffee-look," and he saw that a coffee apparatus of the hour-glass type
was being placed on the table by the window. He nodded, but held up a
clean spoon to indicate that his zabaione had yet to be swallowed.
She smiled, understanding, and spoke again to Lady Sellingworth. A few
minutes later Craven left his table and joined them, taking his Toscana
with him.

They were charmingly prepared for his advent. Three cups were on the
table, and coffee for three was mounting in the hour glass. The two
friends were smoking cigarettes.

As he prepared to sit down on the chair placed ready for him with his
back to the window, Miss Van Tuyn said:

"One minute! Please give the musicians this!"

She put five shillings into his hand.

"And ask them to play the Sicilian Pastorale, and 'A Mezzanotte,' and
the Barcarola di Sorrento, and _not_ to play 'Funiculi, Funicula.' Do
you mind?"

"Of course not! But do let me--"

"No, no! This is my little treat to Lady Sellingworth. She has never
been here before."

Craven went round to the musicians and carried out his directions. As he
did so he saw adoring looks of comprehension come into their dark
faces, and, turning, he caught a wonderful smile that was meant for
them flickering on the soft lips of Miss Van Tuyn. That smile was as
provocative, as definitely full of the siren quality, as if it had
dawned for the only lover, instead of for three humble Italians,
"hairdressers in the daytime," as Miss Van Tuyn explained to Craven
while she poured out his coffee.

"I often come here," she added. "You're surprised, I can see."

"I must say I am," said Craven. "I thought your beat lay rather in the
direction of the Carlton, the Ritz, and Claridge's."

"You see how little he knows me!" she said, turning to Lady
Sellingworth.

"Beryl does not always tread beaten paths," said Lady Sellingworth to
Craven.

"I hate beaten paths. One meets all the dull people on them, the people
who hope they are walking where everyone walks. Beaten paths are like
the front at Brighton on a Sunday morning. What do you say to our
coffee, dearest?"

"It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,"
Lady Sellingworth answered.

Then she turned to Craven.

"Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?"

"If you reall