“I’m afraid scores of people did!” “No, no! I mean people she knows--women especially.” “I don’t think she would care.” “Her friends would care _for_ her!” retorted Braybrooke, almost severely. “To retire from life is all very well. I confess I think it a mistake. But that is merely one man’s opinion. But to retire from life, a great life such as hers was, and then after ten years to burst forth into--into the type of existence represented by Shaftesbury Avenue and the Cafe Royal, that would be unheard of, and really almost unforgivable.” “It would, in fact, be old wildness,” said Craven, with a faint touch of sarcasm. “Old wildness! What a very strange expression!” “But I think it covers the suggested situation. And we know what old wildness is--or if we don’t some of the ‘old guard’ can teach us. But Lady Sellingworth will never be the one to give us such a horrible lesson. If there is a woman in London with true dignity, dignity of the soul, she has it. She has almost too much of it even. I could almost wish she had less.” Braybrooke looked suddenly surprised and then alertly observant. “Less dignity?” he queried, after a slight but significant pause. “Yes.” “But can a _grande dame_, as she is, ever have too much dignity of the soul?” “I think even such a virtue as that can be carried to morbidity. It may become a weapon against the happiness of the one who has it. Those who have no dignity are disgusting. As Lady Sellingworth said to me, they create nausea--” “Nausea!” interrupted Braybrooke, in an almost startled voice. “Yes--in others. But those who have too much dignity wrap themselves up in a secret reserve, and reserve shuts out natural happiness, I think, and creates loneliness. I’m sure Lady Sellingworth feels terribly alone in that beautiful house. I know she does.” “Has she told you so?” “Good heavens--no. But she never would.” “She need not be alone,” observed Braybrooke. “She could have a companion to-morrow.” “I can’t imagine her with a Fanny Cronin.” “I don’t mean a _dame de compagnie_. I mean a husband.” Craven’s ardent blue eyes looked a question. “Seymour Portman is always there waiting and hoping.” “Sir Seymour?” cried Craven. “Well, why not?” said Braybrooke, almost with severity. “Why not?” “But his age!” The world’s governess, who was older than Sir Seymour, though not a soul knew it, looked more severe. “His age would be in every way suitable to Adele Sellingworth’s,” he said firmly. “Oh, but--” “Go on!” “I can’t see an old man like Sir Seymour as _her_ husband. Oh, no! It wouldn’t do. She would never marry such an old man. I am certain of that.” Braybrooke pinched his lips together and felt for his beard.