“She cannot have heard of her father’s death,” said Braybrooke. “But she had! For I expressed my sympathy and she thanked me.” Braybrooke looked very ill at ease and glanced plaintively towards the place where Craven was sitting with the pretty American. “No doubt she had been to visit old friends,” he said, “American friends.” “But this man, Nicolas Arabian, lives alone in his flat. And I’m sure he’s not an American. Lady Archie has seen him several times with Beryl.” “What’s he like?” asked Lady Wrackley. “Marvellously handsome! A _charmeur_ if ever there was one. Beryl certainly had good taste, but--” At this moment there was a general movement. The butler had murmured to Mrs. Ackroyde that lunch was ready. Lady Sellingworth was among the first few women who left the drawing-room, and was sitting at a round table in the big, stone-coloured dining-room when Baron de Melville, an habitue at Coombe, bent over her. “I’m lucky enough to be beside you!” he said. “This is a rare occasion. One never meets you now.” He sat down on her right. The place on her left was vacant. People were still coming in, talking, laughing, finding their seats. The Duchess of Wellingborough, who was exactly opposite to Lady Sellingworth, leaned forward to speak to her. “Adela . . . Adela!” “Yes? How are you, Cora?” “Very well, as I always am. Isn’t Lavallois a marvel?” “He is certainly very clever.” “You are proud of it, my dear. Have you heard what the Bolshevist envoy said to the Prime Minister when--” But at this moment someone spoke to the duchess, who was already beginning to laugh at the story she was intending to tell and Lady Sellingworth was aware of a movement on her left. She felt as if she blushed, though no colour came into her face. “How are you, Lady Sellingworth?” She had not turned her head, but now she did, and met Craven’s hard, uncompromising blue eyes and deliberately smiling lips. “Oh, it’s you! How nice!” She gave him her hand. He just touched it coldly. What a boy he still was in his polite hostility! She thought of Camber Sands and the darkness falling over the waste, and, in spite of her self-control and her pity for him, there was an unconquerable feeling of injury in her heart. What reason, what right, had he to greet her so frigidly? How had she injured him? A roar of conversation had begun in the room. Everyone seemed in high spirits. Mrs. Ackroyde, who was at the same table as Lady Sellingworth, with Lord Alfred Craydon on her right and Sir Robert Syng on her left, looked steadily round over the multitude of her guests with a comprehensive glance, the analyzing and summing-up glance of one to whom everything social was as an open book containing no secrets which her eyes did not read. Those eyes travelled calmly, and presently came to Craven and Adela Sellingworth. She smiled faintly and spoke to Robert Syng. “This is her second debut,” she said. “I’m bringing her out again. They are all amazed.”