her her bronzes had typified something that she valued in herself. Her immense vanity had not been blended with those passions which shake many women, which had devastated Lady Sellingworth. A coarseness in her mind made her love to be physically desired by men, but no coarseness of body made her desire them. And she had supposed that she represented the ultra modern type of woman, the woman who without being cold--she would not acknowledge that she was cold--was free from the slavish instinct which makes all the ordinary women sisters in the vulgar bosom of nature. But since she had seen Arabian she felt less highly civilized; she knew that in her, too, lurked the horrible primitive. And that troubled and at the same time fascinated her. Was that why when she had seen Arabian for the first time she had resolved to get to know him? She had called him a living bronze, but she had thought of him from the first, perhaps, with ardour as flesh and blood. And yet at moments he repelled her. She, who was so audacious, did not want to show herself with him at the Ritz, to walk down Piccadilly with him in daylight. As she had said to Dick Garstin, an atmosphere seemed to hang about Arabian--an unsafe atmosphere. She did not know where she was in it. She lost her bearings, could not see her way, heard steps and voices that sounded strange. And the end of it all was--“I don’t know.” When she thought of Arabian always that sentence was in her mind--“I don’t know.” She was strangely excited. And now Craven came to her. And he attracted her, too, but in such a different way! Suddenly London was interesting! And “I don’t know when we shall go back to Paris!” she said to Miss Cronin. “Is it the Wallace Collection, Beryl?” murmured “Old Fanny,” with plaintive suspicion over her cup of camomile tea. “Yes, it’s the Wallace Collection,” said Miss Van Tuyn. And she went away to dress for her dinner with Dick Garstin.