“And that is the least forgivable form,” said Lady Sellingworth. “Jealousy which is not bound up with the affections is a cold and hideous thing. But I cannot understand a love which is incapable of jealousy. In fact, I don’t think I could believe it to be love at all.” This remark, coming from those lips, surprised Braybrooke. For Lady Sellingworth was not wont to turn any talk in which she took part upon questions concerned with the heart. He had frequently noticed her apparent aversion from all topics connected with deep feeling. To-night, it seemed, this aversion had died out of her. In answer to the last remark Miss Van Tuyn said: “Then, dear, you rule out perfect trust in a matter of love, do you? All the sentimentalists say that perfect love breeds perfect trust. If that is so, how can great lovers be jealous? For jealousy, I suppose--I have never felt it myself in that way--is born out of doubt, but can never exist side by side with complete confidence.” “Ah! But Beryl, in how many people in the course of a lifetime can one have _complete confidence_ I have scarcely met one. What do you say?” She turned her head towards Braybrooke. He looked suddenly rather plaintive, like a man who realizes unexpectedly how lonely he is. “Oh, I hope I know a few such people,” he rejoined rather anxiously. “I have been very lucky in my friends. And I like to think the best of people.” “That is kind,” said Lady Sellingworth. “But I prefer to know the truth of people. And I must say I think most of us are quicksands. The worst of it is that so often when we do for a moment feel we are on firm ground we find it either too hard for our feet or too flat for our liking.” At that moment she thought of Sir Seymour Portman. “You think it is doubt which breeds fascination?” said Craven. “Alas for us if it is so,” she answered, smiling. “The human race is a very unsatisfactory race,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I am only twenty-four and have found that out already. It is very clever of the French to cultivate irony as they do. The ironist always wears clothes and an undershirt of mail. But the sentimentalist goes naked in the east wind which blows through society. Not only is he bound to take cold, but he is liable to be pierced by every arrow that flies.” “Yes, it is wise to cultivate irony,” said Lady Sellingworth. “You have,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “One often sees it in your eyes. Isn’t it true?” She turned to Craven; but he did not choose to agree with her. “I’m a sentimentalist,” he said firmly. “And I never look about for irony. Perhaps that’s why I have not found it in Lady Sellingworth.”