He was one of those rather unusual young men who feel strongly the vulgarity of their own time, and who have in them something which seems at moments to throw back into the past. Not infrequently he felt that this mysterious something was lifting up the voice of the _laudator temporis acti_. But what did he, the human being who contained this voice and many other voices, know of those times now gone? They seemed to draw him in ignorance, and had for him something of the fascination which attaches to the unknown. And this fascination, or something akin to it, hung about Lady Sellingworth, and even about the house in which she dwelt, and drew him to both. He knew that he had never been in any house in London which he liked so much as he liked hers, that in no other London house had he ever felt so much at home, so almost curiously in place. The mere thought of the hall with its blazing fire, its beehive-chair, its staircase with the balustrade of wrought ironwork and gold, filled him with a longing to return to it, to hang up his hat--and remain. And the lady of the house was ideally right in it. He wondered whether in the future he would often be there, whether Lady Sellingworth would allow him to be one of the few real intimates to whom her door was open. He hoped so; he believed so; but he was not quite certain about it. For there was something elusive about her, not insincere but just that--elusive. She might not care to see very much of him although he knew that she liked him. They had touched the fringe of intimacy on the preceding night. After his work at the Foreign Office was over he walked to the club, and the first man he saw on entering it was Francis Braybrooke just back from Paris. Braybrooke was buying some stamps in the hall, and greeted Craven with his usual discreet cordiality. “I’ll come in a moment,” he said. “If you’re not busy we might have a talk. I shall like to hear how you fared with Adela Sellingworth.” Craven begged him to come, and in a few minutes they were settled in two deep arm-chairs in a quiet corner, and Craven was telling of his first visit to Berkeley Square. “Wasn’t I right?” said Braybrooke. “Could Adela Sellingworth ever be a back number? I think that was _your_ expression.” Craven slightly reddened. “Was it?” “I think so,” said Braybrooke, gently but firmly. “I was a--a young fool to use it.” “I fancy it’s a newspaper phrase that has pushed its way somehow into the language.” “Vulgarity pushes its way in everywhere now. Braybrooke, I want to thank you very much for your introduction to Lady Sellingworth. You were right. She has a wonderful charm. It’s a privilege for a young man, as I am I suppose, to know her. To be with her makes life seem more what it ought to be, what one wants it to be.” Braybrooke looked extremely pleased, almost touched. “I am glad you appreciate her,” he said. “It shows that real distinction has still a certain appeal. And so you met Beryl Van Tuyn there.”