“Do you know her?” Braybrooke raised his eyebrows. “Know her? How should I not know her when I am constantly running over to Paris?” “Then I suppose she’s very much ‘in it’ there?” “Yes. She is criticized, of course. She lives very unconventionally, although Fanny Cronin is always officially with her.” “Fanny Cronin?” “Her _dame de compagnie_.” “Oh, the lady who reads Paul Bourget!” “I believe she does. Anyhow, one seldom sees her about. Beryl Van Tuyn is very audacious. She does things that no other lovely girl in her position would ever dare to do, or could do without peril to her reputation. But somehow she brings them off. Mind, I haven’t a word to say against her. She is exceedingly clever and has mastered the difficult art of making people accept from her what they wouldn’t accept for a moment from any other unmarried girl in society. She may be said to have a position of her own. Do you like her?” “Yes, I think I do. She is lovely and very good company.” “Frenchmen rave about her.” “And Frenchwomen?” “Oh, they all know her. She carries things through. That really is the art of life, to be able to carry things through. Her bronzes are quite remarkable. By the way, she has an excellent brain. She cares for the arts. She is by no means a fribble. I have been surprised by her knowledge more than once.” “She seems very fond of Lady Sellingworth. She wants to get her over to Paris.” “Adela Sellingworth won’t go.” “Why not?” “She seems to hate Paris now. It is years since she had stayed there.” After a pause Craven said: “Lady Sellingworth is something of a mystery, I think. I wonder--I wonder if she feels lonely in that big house of hers.” “Far more people feel lonely than seem lonely,” said Braybrooke. “I expect they do. But I think that somehow Lady Sellingworth seems lonely. And yet she is full of mockery.” “Mockery?” “Yes. I feel it.” “But didn’t you find her very kind?” “Oh, yes. I meant of self-mockery.” Braybrooke looked rather dubious. “I think,” continued Craven, perhaps a little obstinately, “that she looks upon herself with irony, while Miss Van Tuyn looks upon others with irony. Perhaps, though, that is rather a question of the different outlooks of youth and age.” “H’m?” Braybrooke pulled at his grey-and-brown beard. “I scarcely see--I scarcely see, I confess, why age should be more disposed to self-mockery than youth. Age, if properly met and suitably faced--that is, with dignity and self-respect, such as Adela Sellingworth undoubtedly shows--has no reason for self-mockery; whereas youth, although charming and delightful might well laugh occasionally at its own foolishness.” “Ah, but it never does!” “I think for once I shall have a cocktail,” said Braybrooke, signing to an attendant in livery, who at that moment came from some hidden region and looked around warily. “You will join me, Craven? Let it be dry Martinis. Eh? Yes! Two dry Martinis.” As the attendant went away Braybrooke added: