otees, when the years have stolen from them the last possibilities
of personal romance? For a moment Craven imaginatively projected himself
into old age, saw himself with white hair, a lined face, heavily-veined
hands, faded eyes.

But her eyes were not faded. They still shone like lamps. Was she,
perhaps, the victim of a youthful soul hidden in an old body, like
trembling Love caged in a decaying tabernacle from which it could not
escape?

He looked up. At the same moment Lady Sellingworth looked up. Their eyes
met. She smiled faintly, and her eyes mocked something or someone; fate,
perhaps, him, or herself. He did not know what or whom they mocked.

The music stopped, and, after some applause, conversation broke out
again.

"Have you given up Italy as you have given up Paris?" Miss Van Tuyn
asked of Lady Sellingworth.

"Oh, yes, long ago. I only go to Aix now for a cure, and sometimes in
the early spring to Cap Martin."

"The hotel?"

"Yes; the hotel. I like the pine woods."

"So do I. But, to my mind, there's no longer a vestige of real romance
on the French Riviera. Too many grand dukes have passed over it."

Lady Sellingworth laughed.

"But I don't seek romance when I leave London."

"No?"

She looked oddly doubtful for a moment. Then she said:

"Mr. Craven, will you tell us the truth?"

"It depends. What about?"

"Oh, a very simple matter."

"I'll do my best, but all men are liars."

"We only ask you to do your best."

"We!" he said, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth.

"Yes--yes," she said. "I go solid with my sex."

"Then--what is it?"

"Do you ever go travelling--ever, without a secret hope of romance
meeting you on your travels, somewhere, somehow, wonderfully, suddenly?
Do you?"

He thought for a moment. Then he said:

"Honestly, I don't think I ever do."

"There!" said Miss Van Tuyn triumphantly. "Nor do I."

She looked half defiantly, half inquisitively at Lady Sellingworth.

"My dear Beryl!" said the latter, "for all these lacks in your
temperament you must wait."

"Wait? For how long?"

"Till you are fifty, perhaps."

"I know I shall want romance at fifty."

"Let us say sixty, then."

"Or," interrupted Craven, "until you are comfortably married."

"Comfortably married!" she cried. "_Quelle horreur!_"

"I had no idea Americans were so romantic," said Lady Sellingworth, with
just a touch of featherweight malice.

"Americans! I believe the longing for romance co