He pushed it open. They passed through and were away from the motors, standing on a broad terrace which turned at right angles and skirted the back of the house. “Don’t let us go round the corner before all the drawing-room windows.” “No?” he said. “Unless you prefer--” “I will go wherever you like.” “I thought--what about this path?” “Shall we do down it?” “I think it looks rather tempting.” They walked slowly on, descending a slight incline, and came to a second long terrace on a lower level. There was a good deal of brick-work in Mrs. Ackroyde’s garden, but there were some fine trees, and in summer the roses were wonderful. Now there were not many flowers, but at least there were calm and silence, and the breath of the winter woods came to Lady Sellingworth and Craven. Craven said nothing, and walked stiffly beside his companion looking straight ahead. He seemed entirely unlike the man who had talked so enthusiastically in her drawing-room after the dinner in the _Bella Napoli_, and again on that second evening when they had dined together without the company of Beryl Van Tuyn. But Dindie Ackroyde had said he had come down that day because he had been told he would meet her. And Dindie was scarcely ever wrong about people. But this time surely she had made a mistake. “Oh, there’s the hard court!” Lady Sellingworth said. “Yes.” “It looks a beauty.” “Do you play?” “I used to. But I have given it up.” After a silence she added: “You know I have given up everything. There comes a time--” She hesitated. “Perhaps you will not believe it, but I feel very strange here with all these people.” “But you know them all, don’t you?” “Nearly all. But they mean nothing to me now.” They were walking slowly up and down the long terrace. “One passes away from things,” she said, “as one goes on. It is rather a horrible feeling.” Suddenly, moved by an impulse that was almost girlish, she stopped on the path and said: “What is the matter with you to-day? Why are you angry with me?” Craven flushed. “Angry! But I am not angry!” “Yes, you are. Tell me why.” “How could I--I’m really not angry. As if I could be angry with you!” “Then why are you so different?” “In what way am I different?” She did not answer, but said: “Did you hear what the baron and I were talking about at lunch?” “Just a few words.” “I hope you didn’t think I wished to join in gossip about Beryl Van Tuyn?” “Of course not.” “I hate all such talk. If that offended you--” She was losing her dignity and knew it, but a great longing to overcome his rigidity drove her on. “If you think--” “It wasn’t that!” he said. “I have no reason to mind what anyone says about Miss Van Tuyn.” “But she’s your friend!” “Is she? I think a friend is a very rare thing. You have taught me that.” “I? How?” “You went abroad without letting me know.” “Is that it?” she said. And there was a strange note, like a note of joy, in her voice.