At this point in the discourse Craven turned away, feeling that edification was scarcely to be found by him here. Certainly at this moment he was dissatisfied with life. But that was Lady Sellingworth’s fault. If he were sitting with her now in Berkeley square the scheme of things would probably not seem all out of gear. He wondered where she was, what she was doing! The footman had said he believed she was near Monte Carlo. Craven remembered once hearing her say she was fond of Cap Martin. Probably she was staying there. It occurred to him that possibly she had told some of her friends of her approaching departure, though she had chosen to conceal it from him. Miss Van Tuyn might have known of it. He resolved to go to Brook Street and find out whether the charming girl had been in the secret. Claridge’s was close by. It would be something to do. If he could not see Lady Sellingworth he wanted to talk about her. And at that moment his obscure irritation made him turn towards youth. Old age had cheated him. Well, he was young; he would seek consolation! At Claridge’s he inquired for Miss Van Tuyn, and was told she was out, had been out since the morning. Craven was pulling his card-case out of his pocket when he heard a voice say: “Are there any letters for me?” He swung round and there stood Miss Van Tuyn quite near him. For an instant she did not see him, and he had time to note that she looked even unusually vivid and brilliant. An attendant handed her some letters. She took them, turned and saw Craven. “I had just asked for you,” he said, taking off his hat. “Oh! How nice of you!” Her eyes were shining. He felt a controlled excitement in her. Her face seemed to be trying to tell something which her mind would not choose to tell. He wondered what it was, this secret which he divined. “Come upstairs and we’ll have a talk in my sitting-room.” She looked at him narrowly, he thought, as they went together to the lift. She seemed to have a little less self-possession than usual, even to be slightly self-conscious and because of that watchful. When they were in her sitting-room she took off her hat, as if tired, put it on a table and sat down by the fire. “I’ve been out all day,” she said. “Yes? Are you still having painting lessons?” “That’s it--painting lessons. Dick is an extraordinary man.” “You mean Dick Garstin. I don’t know him.” “He’s absolutely unscrupulous, but a genius. I believe genius always is unscrupulous. I am sure of it. It cannot be anything else.” “That’s a pity.” “I don’t know that it is.” “But how does Dick Garstin show his unscrupulousness?” Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly wary. “Oh--in all sorts of ways. He uses people. He looks on people as mere material. He doesn’t care for their feelings. He doesn’t care what happens to them. If he gets out of them what he wants it’s enough. After that they may go to perdition, and he wouldn’t stretch out a finger to save them.” “What a delightful individual!”