“Mr. Craven! But I told you to let him in. Have you sent him away?” “No, my lady. But Mr. Craven wouldn’t come up till I had seen your ladyship. He said it was so late. He asked me first to tell your ladyship he had called, and whether he might see you just for a minute, as he had a message to give your ladyship.” “A message! Please ask him to come up.” The footman went out, and Lady Sellingworth went to sit down near the fire. She now looked exactly as usual, casual, indifferent, but kind, not at all like a woman who would ever pity herself. In a moment the footman announced “Mr. Craven,” and Craven walked in with an eager but slightly anxious expression on his face. “I know it is much too late for a visit,” he said. “But I thought I might perhaps just speak to you.” “Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?” He looked surprised. “Miss Van Tuyn? I haven’t seen her.” “Yes?” “I only wanted--I wondered whether, if you are not doing anything to-night, I could persuade you to give me a great pleasure. . . . Could I?” “But what is it?” “Would you dine with me at the _Bella Napoli_?” Lady Sellingworth thought of the shop girls again, but now how differently! “I would come and call for you just before eight. It’s a fine night. It’s dry, and it will be clear and starry.” “You want me to walk?” He slightly reddened. “Or shall we dress and go in a taxi?” he said. “No, no. But I haven’t said I can come.” His face fell. “I will come,” she said. “And we will walk. But what would Mr. Braybrooke say?” “Have you seen him? Has he told you?” “What?” “About our conversation in the club?” “I have seen him, and I don’t think he is quite pleased about Shaftesbury Avenue. But never mind. I cannot live to please Mr. Braybrooke. _Au revoir_. Just before eight.” When he had gone Lady Sellingworth again looked in the glass. “But it’s impossible!” she said to herself. “It’s impossible!”