Craven.
He took off his hat. Miss Van Tuyn gave him a long and eloquent look, which was really not unlike a Leap Year proposal. Then she entered the cafe with Jennings. Craven thought at that moment that her back looked unusually rigid.
A taxi was passing. He held up his hand. It stopped. Lady Sellingworth and he got in, after he had given the address to the chauffeur.
"What a lovely girl Beryl Van Tuyn is!" said Lady Sellingworth, as they drove off.
"She is--very lovely."
"And she has a lot of courage, moral courage."
"Is it?" he could not help saying.
"Yes. She lives as she chooses to live. And yet she isn't married."
"Would marriage make it all easier for her?"
"Much, if she married the man who suited her."
"I wonder what sort of a man that would be."
"So does she, I think. But she's a strange girl. I should not be surprised if she were never to marry at all."
"Don't you think she would fall in love?"
"Yes. For I think every living woman is capable of that. But she has the sort of intellect which would not be tricked for very long by the heart. Any weakness of hers would soon be over, I fancy."
"I dare say you are right. In fact I believe you are generally right. She told me you were a book of wisdom. And I feel that it is true."
"Here is Berkeley Square."
"How wrong it is of these chauffeurs to drive so fast! It is almost as bad as in Paris. They defy the law. I should like to have this man up."
He got out. She followed him, looking immensely tall in the dimness.
"I am not going back to the Cafe Royal," he said.
"But it will be amusing. And I think they are certainly expecting you."
"I am not going there."
She rang. Instantly the door was opened by the handsome middle-aged butler.
"Then come in for a little while," she said casually. "Murgatroyd, you might bring us up some tea and lemon, or will you have whisky and soda, Mr. Craven?"
"I would much rather have tea and lemon, please," he said.
A great fire was burning in the hall. Again Craven felt that he was in a more elegant London than the London of modern days. As he went up the wide, calm staircase, and tasted the big silence of the house, he thought of the packed crowd in the Cafe Royal, of the uproar there, of the smoke wreaths, of the staring heterogeneous faces, of the shouting or sullenly folded lips, of the--perhaps--tipsy man of genius, of Jennings with his green eyes, his black beard, his tall ebony staff, of the "little bloodthirsty thing" with the round Russian face, of Miss Van Tuyn in the midst of it all, sitting by the side of Enid Blunt, smoking cigarettes, and searching the men's faces for the looks which were food for her craving. And he loved the contrast which was given to him.
"Do go in and sit by the fire, and I'll come in a moment," said the husky voice he was learning 

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