And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on the threshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences. She had not yet told Craven of her return. For the moment she was glad that she had not given way to her impulse and telephoned to him on the Sunday. She might have caught him with her message just as he was starting for Rye with Beryl. That would have been horrible. Of course she would not telephone to him now. She resolved to ignore him. He had forgotten all about her. She would seem to forget about him. There was nothing else to be done. Pride, the pride of the _Grande Dame_ which she had never totally lost, rose up in her, hot, fiery even; it mingled with an intense jealousy, and made her wish to inflict punishment. She was like a wounded animal that longs to strike, to tear with its claws, to lacerate and leave bleeding. Nevertheless she had no intention of taking action against either of those who had hurt her. Beryl should have her triumph. Youth should be left in peace with its own cruelty. Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth’s return to Berkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added the information that she had arrived on the previous Saturday. “Oh!” said Craven, with apparent indifference. “Have you seen her?” Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking, in his opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual. “She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and in Switzerland.” “In Switzerland!” said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke’s remarks about Catherine Bewdley and Lausanne. “Yes, but I don’t think she has been ill. I ventured to--just to say a word as to doctors, and she assured me she had been perfectly well all the time she was away. Are you going to see her?” “I’ve got a good deal to do just now,” said Craven, coldly and with a slight rise of colour. “But of course I hope to see Lady Sellingworth again some day. She is a charming woman. It’s always a pleasure to have a talk with her.” “Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn’s extraordinarily good-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?” “What friend?” asked Craven, with sudden sharpness. “The tall man she has been seen about with lately.” “I don’t know.” After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke’s part, Craven replied: “Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people.” “To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a little inclined to gossip.” “Lady Archie Brooke?” “Yes. She has met Miss Van Tuyn two or three times in Glebe Place, it seems, walking with a man whom she describes as a marvel of good looks. But there’s Antring. I must have a word with him. He is just over from Paris.”