She must not lose Craven as a friend. If she did she would lose one on whom she was beginning to rely. Women are of no use in certain contingencies, and a beautiful woman can seldom thoroughly trust another woman. Miss Van Tuyn absolutely trusted no woman. But she trusted Craven. She thought she must be very fond of him. And yet she had none of the feeling for him which persecuted her now when she was with Arabian. Arabian drew her in an almost occult way. She felt his tug like the mysterious tug of water when one stands near a weir in a river. When she was with him she sometimes had a physical impulse to lean backward. And that came because of another strong and opposing impulse which seemed mental. Adela should not entice Craven back to her. She was long past the age of needing trusty comrades and possible helpers, in Beryl’s opinion. Whatever she did, or hoped, or wanted, or strove for, life was really over for her, the life that is life, with its unsuspected turns, and intrigues, and passions and startling occurrences. Even if for a time such a man as Craven were hypnotized by a woman’s strong will-power, such an unnatural condition could not possibly last. But Beryl made up her mind that she would not suffer even a short interim of power exercised by Adela. Even for poor Adela’s own sake such an interim was undesirable. It would only lead to suffering. And while it lasted she, Beryl, might need something and lack it. That must not be. Adela was finished, and she must learn to understand that she was finished. No woman ought to seek to prolong her reign beyond a certain age. If Adela had come back with her sheaves they must be resolutely scattered to the winds--by somebody. Arabian had taken a flat in Chelsea looking over the river. Evidently he was going to settle down in London. “But I live in Paris!” thought Miss Van Tuyn, as she pushed Lady Sellingworth’s bell. Her ladyship was at home, and Miss Van Tuyn mounted the stairs full of expectation. When she came into the big drawing-room she noticed at once how dimly lit it was. Besides the firelight there was only one electric lamp turned on, and that was protected by a rather large shade, and stood on a table at some distance from Lady Sellingworth’s sofa. A tall figure got up from this sofa as Miss Van Tuyn made her way towards the fire, and the well-remembered and very individual husky voice said: “Dear Beryl! It’s good of you to come to see me so soon. I only arrived on Saturday.” “Dearest! How dark it is! I can scarcely see you.” “I love to give the firelight a chance. Didn’t you know that? Come and sit down and tell me what you have been doing. You have quite given up Paris?” “Yes, for the time. I’ve become engrossed in painting. Dick Garstin has given me the run of his studio. But where have you been?”