ably from her own misery and almost desperation. At one moment she
felt a rush of tenderness for him, at another an almost stony hardness.

"Ah--that's just it! I dare say it will be better to die in harness."

"Die!" she said, as if startled.

At that moment the thought assailed her, "If Seymour were suddenly to
die!" There would be a terrible gap in her life. Her loneliness then
would be horrible indeed unless--she pulled herself up with a sort of
fierce mental violence. "I won't! I won't!" she cried out to herself.

"You are very strong and healthy, Seymour," she said, "I think you will
live to be very old."

"Probably. Palaces usually contain a few dodderers. But is anything the
matter, Adela? The old dog is very persistent, you know."

"I've been feeling a little depressed."

"You stay alone too much, I believe."

"It isn't that. I was out at the theatre with a party only last night.
We went to _The Great Lover_. But he wasn't like you. You are a really
great lover."

And again she leaned forward towards him, trying to feel physically what
surely she was feeling in another way.

"The greatest in London, I am sure."

"I don't know," he said, very simply. "But certainly I have the gift of
faithfulness, if it is a gift."

"We had great discussions on love and jealousy last night."

"Did you? Whom were you with?"

"I went with Beryl Van Tuyn and Francis Braybrooke."

"An oddly uneven pair!"

"Alick Craven was with us, too."

"The boy I met here one Sunday."

Lady Sellingworth felt an almost fierce flash of irritation as she heard
him say "boy."

"He's hardly a boy," she said. "He must be at least thirty, and I think
he seems even older than he is."

"Does he? He struck me as very young. When he went away with that
pretty girl it was like young April going out of the room with all the
daffodils. They matched."

The intense irritation grew in Lady Sellingworth. She felt as if she
were being pricked by a multitude of pins.

"Beryl is years and years younger than he is!" she said. "I don't think
you are very clever about ages, Seymour. There must be nearly ten years
difference between them."

Scarcely had she said this than her mind added, "And about thirty years'
difference between him and me!" And then something in her--she thought
of it as the soul--crumpled up, almost as if trying to die and know
nothing more.

"What is it, Adela?" again he said, gently. "Can't I help you?"

"No, no, yo