The ascertained fact that Craven had met Adela Sellingworth and Beryl Van Tuyn on the same day and together, and that the woman of sixty had evidently attracted him far more than the radiant girl of twenty-four, did not deter Braybrooke from his enterprise. His long experience of the world had led him to know that human beings can, and perpetually do, interfere successfully in each other’s affairs, help in making of what are called destinies, head each other off from the prosecution of designs, in fact play Providence and the Devil to each other. His laudable intention was to play Providence. On the following day he considered it his social duty to pay a call at Number 18A, Berkeley Square. Dear Adela Sellingworth would certainly wish to know how things were going in Paris. Although she now never went there, and in fact never went anywhere, she still, thank God, had an interest in what was going on in the world. It would be his pleasure to gratify it. He found her at home and alone. But before he was taken upstairs the butler said he was not sure whether her ladyship was seeing anyone and must find out. He went away to do so, and returned with an affirmative answer. When Braybrooke came into the big drawing-room on the first floor he fancied that his friend was looking older, and even paler, than usual. As he took her hand he thought, “Can I be right? Is it possible that Craven can imagine himself in love with her?” It was an uncomplimentary thought, and he tried to put it from him as singularly unsuitable, and indeed almost outrageous at this moment, but it would not go. It defied him and stuck firmly in his mind. In his opinion Adela Sellingworth was the most truly distinguished woman in London. But that she should attract a young man, almost indeed a boy, in _that_ way! It did really seem utterly impossible. In answer to his inquiry, Lady Sellingworth acknowledged that she had not been feeling very well during the last two days. “Perhaps you have been doing too much?” he suggested. The mocking look came into her eyes. “But what do I ever do now?” she said. “I lie quietly on my shelf. That surely can’t be very exhausting.” “No one would ever connect you with being laid on the shelf,” said Braybrooke; “your personality forbids that. Besides, I hear that you have been having quite a lively time.” He paused--it was his conception of the pause dramatic--then added: “At the foot of a volcano!” “Ah! you have heard about Vesuvius!” “Yes.” “What a marvellous gatherer of news you are! Beryl Van Tuyn?” “No. I happened to meet young Craven at the St. James’s Club, and he told me of your excursion into Bohemia.”