“Why not? But Lady Sellingworth is definitely not one.” “How so? I must deny that, really. I know these young poets and painters like to imagine that everyone who has had the great honour of living under Queen Victoria--” “Forgive me! It isn’t that at all.” “Well, then--oh, our dry Martinis! How much is it, waiter?” “Two shillings, sir.” “Two--thank you. Well, then, Craven, I affirm that Lady Sellingworth is as much a Georgian as any young person who writes bad poetry in Cheyne Walk or paints impossible pictures in Glebe Place.” “She would deny that. She said, in my presence and in that of Sir Seymour Portman and Miss Van Tuyn, that she did not belong to this age.” “What an--what an extraordinary statement!” said Braybrooke, drinking down his second cocktail at a gulp. “She said she was--or rather, had been--an Edwardian. She would not have it that she belonged to the present day at all.” “A whim! It must have been a whim! The best of women are subject to caprice. It is the greatest mistake to class yourself as belonging to the past. It dates you. It--it--it practically inters you!” “I think she meant that her glory was Edwardian, that her real life was then. I don’t think she chooses to realize how immensely attractive she is now in the Georgian days.” “Well, I really can’t understand such a view. I shall--when I meet her--I shall really venture to remonstrate with her about it. And besides, apart from the personal question, one owes something to one’s contemporaries. Upon my word, I begin to understand at last why certain very charming women haven’t a good word to say for Adela Sellingworth.” “You mean the ‘old guard,’ I suppose?” “I don’t wish to mention any names. It is always a mistake to mention names. One cannot guard against it too carefully. But having done what she did ten years ago dear Adela Sellingworth should really--but it is not for me to criticise her. Only there is nothing people--women--are more sensitive about than the question of age. No one likes to be laid on the shelf. Adela Sellingworth has chosen to--well--one might feel such a very drastic step to be quite uncalled for--quite uncalled for. And so--but you haven’t told me! Did Adela Sellingworth allow herself to be persuaded to go to the Cafe Royal?” “No, she didn’t.” “Thank God for that!” said the world’s governess, looking immensely relieved. “I escorted her to Berkeley Square.” “Good! good!” “But we walked to the door of the Cafe Royal.” “What--down Shaftesbury Avenue?” “Yes!” “Past the Cafe Monico and--Piccadilly Circus?” “Yes!” “What time was it?” “Well after ten.” “Very unsuitable! I must say that--very unsuitable! That corner by the Monico at night is simply chock-a-block--I--I should say, teems, that’s the word--teems with people whom nobody knows or could ever wish to know. Beryl Van Tuyn should really be more careful. She grows quite reckless. And Adela Sellingworth is so tall and unmistakable. I do hope nobody saw her.”