felt unusually bitter for a few minutes, had asked herself, as human beings ask themselves every day, the eternal why. “Why, why, why am I as I am? Why can’t I care for the suitable? Why can’t I like the gift held out to me? Why doesn’t my soul age with my body? Why must I continue to be lonely just because of the taint in my nature which forbids me to find companionship in one who finds perfect companionship in me? Why--to sum up--am I condemned eternally to be myself?” There was no answer. The voice was not in the whirlwind. And presently she had dismissed those useless, those damnable questions, which only torture because they are never answered. And then had come the night in Soho. And there for the first time since they had known each other she had felt herself to be subtly involved in a woman’s obscure conflict with Beryl Van Tuyn. She was not conscious of having taken up weapons. Nevertheless she had no doubt about the conflict. And on her side any force brought into play against her beautiful friend must have issued simply from her personality, from some influence, perhaps from some charm, which she had not deliberately used. (At least she thought she was being sincere with herself in telling herself that.) Craven had been the cause of the conflict, and certainly he had been fully aware of Beryl Van Tuyn’s part in it. And he had shown quiet determination, willfulness even. That willfulness of his had pleased Lady Sellingworth more than anything had pleased her for a very long time. It had even touched her. At first she had thought that perhaps it had been prompted by chivalry, by something charmingly old-fashioned, and delicately gentlemanly in Craven. Later on she had been glad--intimately, warmly glad--to be quite sure that something more personal had guided him in his conduct that night. He had simply preferred her company to the company of Beryl Van Tuyn. She was woman enough to rejoice in that fact. It was even rather wonderful to her. And it had given Craven a place in her estimation which no one had had for ten years. Beryl’s pressure upon him had been very definite. She had practically told him, and asked him, to do a certain thing--to finish the evening with her. And he had practically denied her right to command, and refused her request. He had preferred to the Georgians and their lively American contemporary, sincerely preferred, an Edwardian. The compliment was the greater because the Edwardian had not encouraged him. Indeed in a way he had really defied her as well as Beryl Van Tuyn. She had loved his defiance. When he had flatly told her he did not intend to go back to the Cafe Royal she had felt thankful to him--just that. And just before his almost boyish remark, made with genuine vexation in his voice, about the driving of London chauffeurs had given her a little happy thrill such as she had not known for years. She had not had the heart to leave him on her doorstep.