he 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 g