“I hope,” he said, lifting and lowering his bushy eyebrows, “I hope, at any rate, she will never be so foolish as to marry a man who is what is called young. That would be a terrible mistake, both for her and for him. Now I really must be going. I am dining to-night rather early with--oh, by the way, it is with one of your chiefs--Eric Learington. A good fellow--a good fellow! We are going to some music afterwards at Queen’s Hall. Good-bye. I’m very glad you realize Adela Sellingworth’s great distinction and charm. But--” He paused, as if considering something carefully; then he added: “But don’t forget that she and Seymour Portman would be perfectly suitable to one another. She is a delightful creature, but she is no longer a young woman. But I need not tell you that.” And having thus done the needless thing he went away, walking with a certain unwonted self-consciousness which had its source solely in dry Martinis. CHAPTER III Craven realized that he had “given himself away” directly Braybrooke was gone. The two empty glasses stood on a low table in front of his chair. He looked at them and for an instant was filled with anger against himself. To be immortal--he was old-fashioned enough to believe surreptitiously in his own immortality--and yet to be deflected from the straight path of good sense by a couple of dry Martinis! It was humiliating, and he raged against himself. Braybrooke had certainly gone away thinking that he, Craven, had fallen in love with Lady Sellingworth. That thought, too, might possibly have come out of one of those little glasses, the one on the left. But nevertheless it would stick in Braybrooke’s mind long after the Martinis were forgotten. And what if it did? Craven said that to himself, but he felt far less defiant than sensitively uncomfortable. He was surprised by himself. Evidently he had not known his own feelings. When Braybrooke mentioned Seymour Portman as a suitable husband for Lady Sellingworth something strong, almost violent, had risen up in Craven to protest. What was that? And why was he suddenly so angry? He was surely not going to make a fool of himself. He felt almost youthfully alarmed and also rather excited. An odd sense of romance suddenly floated about him. Did that too come from those cursed dry Martinis? Impossible to be sure for the moment. He found himself wondering whether teetotallers knew more about their souls than moderate drinkers, or less.