“Then come in for a little while,” she said casually. “Murgatroyd, you might bring us up some tea and lemon, or will you have whisky and soda, Mr. Craven?” “I would much rather have tea and lemon, please,” he said. A great fire was burning in the hall. Again Craven felt that he was in a more elegant London than the London of modern days. As he went up the wide, calm staircase, and tasted the big silence of the house, he thought of the packed crowd in the Cafe Royal, of the uproar there, of the smoke wreaths, of the staring heterogeneous faces, of the shouting or sullenly folded lips, of the--perhaps--tipsy man of genius, of Jennings with his green eyes, his black beard, his tall ebony staff, of the “little bloodthirsty thing” with the round Russian face, of Miss Van Tuyn in the midst of it all, sitting by the side of Enid Blunt, smoking cigarettes, and searching the men’s faces for the looks which were food for her craving. And he loved the contrast which was given to him. “Do go in and sit by the fire, and I’ll come in a moment,” said the husky voice he was learning to love. “I’m just going to take off my hat.” Craven opened the great mahogany door and went in. The big room was very dimly lighted by two standard electric lamps, one near the fireplace, the other in a distant corner where a grand piano stood behind a huge china bowl in which a pink azalea was blooming. There was a low armchair near the fire by a sofa. He sat down in it, and picked up a book which lay on a table close beside it. What did she read--this book of wisdom? “_Musiciens d’aujourd’hui_,” by Romain Rolland. Craven thought he was disappointed. There was no revelation for him in that. He held the book on his knee, and wondered what he had expected to find, what type of book. What special line of reading was Lady Sellingworth’s likely to be? He could imagine her dreaming over “Wisdom and Destiny,” or perhaps over “The Book of Pity and of Death.” On the other hand, it seemed quite natural to think of her smiling her mocking smile over a work of delicate, or even of bitter, irony, such as Anatole France’s story of Pilate at the Baths of Baies, or study of the Penguins. He could not think that she cared for sentimental books, though she might perhaps have a taste for works dealing with genuine passion. He heard the door open gently, and got up. Lady Sellingworth came in. She had not changed her dress, which was a simple day dress of black. She had only taken off her fur and hat, and now came towards him, still wearing white gloves and holding a large black fan in her hand. “What’s that you’ve got?” she asked. “Oh--my book!” “Yes. I took it up because I wondered what you were reading. I think what people read by preference tells one something of what they are. I was interested to know what you read. Forgive my curiosity.” She sat down by the fire, opened the fan, and held it between her face and the flames. “I read all sorts of things.” “Novels?”