Craven went round to the musicians and carried out his directions. As he did so he saw adoring looks of comprehension come into their dark faces, and, turning, he caught a wonderful smile that was meant for them flickering on the soft lips of Miss Van Tuyn. That smile was as provocative, as definitely full of the siren quality, as if it had dawned for the only lover, instead of for three humble Italians, “hairdressers in the daytime,” as Miss Van Tuyn explained to Craven while she poured out his coffee. “I often come here,” she added. “You’re surprised, I can see.” “I must say I am,” said Craven. “I thought your beat lay rather in the direction of the Carlton, the Ritz, and Claridge’s.” “You see how little he knows me!” she said, turning to Lady Sellingworth. “Beryl does not always tread beaten paths,” said Lady Sellingworth to Craven. “I hate beaten paths. One meets all the dull people on them, the people who hope they are walking where everyone walks. Beaten paths are like the front at Brighton on a Sunday morning. What do you say to our coffee, dearest?” “It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,” Lady Sellingworth answered. Then she turned to Craven. “Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?” “If you really don’t mind? It isn’t a habit with me, but I assure you I know how to do it quite adequately.” “He’s an artist,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “He knows it’s the only cigar that really goes with Vesuvius. Do light up!” “I’m thankful I came here to-night,” he said. “I felt very dull and terrifically English, so I turned to Soho as an antidote. The guitars lured me in here. I was at the Embassy in Rome for a year. In the summer we lived at the Villa Rosebery, near Naples. Ever since that time I’ve had an almost childish love of guitars.” Miss Van Tuyn held up a hand and formed “Sh!” with her rosy lips. “It’s the Barcarola di Sorrento!” she whispered. A silence fell in the narrow room. The Italian voices were hushed. The padrona dreamed behind her counter with her large arms laid upon it, like an Italian woman spread out on her balcony for an afternoon’s watching of the street below her window. And Craven let himself go to the music, as so many English people only let themselves go when something Italian is calling them. On his left Miss Van Tuyn, with one arm leaning on the table, listened intently, but not so intently that she forgot to watch Craven and to keep track of his mind. On his right Lady Sellingworth sat very still. She had put away her only half-smoked cigarette. Her eyes looked down on the table cloth. Her very tall figure was held upright, but without any stiffness. One of her hands was hidden. The other, in a long white glove, rested on the table, and presently the fingers of it began gently to close and unclose, making, as they did this, a faint shuffling noise against the cloth.