The more he thought over his visit to Adela Sellingworth the more certain did Francis Braybrooke become that it had not gone off well. For once he had not played his cards to the best advantage. He felt sure that inadvertently he had irritated his hostess. Her final dismissal of the subject of young Craven’s possible happiness with Beryl Van Tuyn, if circumstances should ever bring them together, had been very abrupt. She had really almost kicked it out of the conversation. But then, she had never been fond of discussing love affairs. Braybrooke had noticed that. As he considered the matter he began to feel rather uneasy. Was it possible that Adela Sellingworth--his mind hesitated, then took the unpleasant leap--that Adela Sellingworth was beginning to like young Craven in an unsuitable way? Craven certainly had behaved oddly when Adela Sellingworth had been discussed between them, and when Craven had been the subject of discussion with Adela Sellingworth she had behaved curiously. There was something behind it all. Of that Braybrooke was convinced. But his perplexity and doubt increased to something like agitation a few days later when he met a well-born woman of his acquaintance, who had “gone in for” painting and living her own life, and had become a bit of a Bohemian. She had happened to mention that she had seen his friend, “that wonderful-looking Lady Sellingworth,” dining at the _Bella Napoli_ on a recent evening. Naturally Braybrooke supposed that the allusion was to the night of Lady Sellingworth’s dinner with Beryl Van Tuyn, and he spoke of the lovely girl as Lady Sellingworth’s companion. But his informant, looking rather surprised, told him that Lady Sellingworth had been with a very handsome young man, and, on discreet inquiry being made, gave an admirable description from the painter’s point of view, of Craven. Braybrooke said nothing, but he was secretly almost distressed. He thought it such a mistake for his distinguished friend to go wandering about in Soho alone with a mere boy. It was undignified. It was not the thing. He could not understand it unless really she was losing her head. And then he remembered her past. Although he never spoke of it, and now seldom thought about it, Braybrooke knew very well what sort of woman Adela Sellingworth had been. But her dignified life of ten years had really almost wiped her former escapades out of his recollection. There seemed to be a gulf fixed between the professional beauty and the white-haired recluse of Berkeley Square. When he looked at her, sat with her now, if he ever gave a thought to her past it was accompanied, or immediately followed, by a mental question: “Was it _she_ who did that?” or “Can _she_ ever have been like that?” But now Braybrooke uneasily began to remember Lady Sellingworth’s past reputation and to think of the “old guard.”