Miss Van Tuyn glanced at those fingers and then again at Craven, but for the moment he did not notice her. He was standing by the little harbour at the Villa Rosebery, looking across the bay to Capri on a warm summer evening. And the sea people were in his thoughts. How often had he envied them their lives, as men envy those whose lives are utterly different from theirs! But presently Miss Van Tuyn’s persistent and vigorous mind must have got some hold on his, for he began to remember her beauty and to feel the lure of it in the music. And then, almost simultaneously, he was conscious of Lady Sellingworth, of her old age and of her departed beauty. And he felt her loss in the music. Could such a woman enjoy listening to such music? Must it not rather bring a subtle pain into her heart, the pain that Italy brings to her devotees, when the years have stolen from them the last possibilities of personal romance? For a moment Craven imaginatively projected himself into old age, saw himself with white hair, a lined face, heavily-veined hands, faded eyes. But her eyes were not faded. They still shone like lamps. Was she, perhaps, the victim of a youthful soul hidden in an old body, like trembling Love caged in a decaying tabernacle from which it could not escape? He looked up. At the same moment Lady Sellingworth looked up. Their eyes met. She smiled faintly, and her eyes mocked something or someone; fate, perhaps, him, or herself. He did not know what or whom they mocked. The music stopped, and, after some applause, conversation broke out again. “Have you given up Italy as you have given up Paris?” Miss Van Tuyn asked of Lady Sellingworth. “Oh, yes, long ago. I only go to Aix now for a cure, and sometimes in the early spring to Cap Martin.” “The hotel?” “Yes; the hotel. I like the pine woods.” “So do I. But, to my mind, there’s no longer a vestige of real romance on the French Riviera. Too many grand dukes have passed over it.” Lady Sellingworth laughed. “But I don’t seek romance when I leave London.” “No?” She looked oddly doubtful for a moment. Then she said: “Mr. Craven, will you tell us the truth?” “It depends. What about?” “Oh, a very simple matter.” “I’ll do my best, but all men are liars.” “We only ask you to do your best.” “We!” he said, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth. “Yes--yes,” she said. “I go solid with my sex.” “Then--what is it?” “Do you ever go travelling--ever, without a secret hope of romance meeting you on your travels, somewhere, somehow, wonderfully, suddenly? Do you?” He thought for a moment. Then he said: “Honestly, I don’t think I ever do.” “There!” said Miss Van Tuyn triumphantly. “Nor do I.” She looked half defiantly, half inquisitively at Lady Sellingworth. “My dear Beryl!” said the latter, “for all these lacks in your temperament you must wait.” “Wait? For how long?” “Till you are fifty, perhaps.” “I know I shall want romance at fifty.” “Let us say sixty, then.”