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Updated: June 15, 2025
It had just occurred to him that Rupert could be very comfortable on Lord Sellingworth's and Lord Manham's combined fortunes, though he had no idea that Lady Sellingworth had ever thought of "the lad" as a possible husband. Other people, however, noticed the new development in her life.
There was something so remote and distinguished about her life, her solitary, retired life. She did not come in contact with such people. "Get you a kib, gentleman?" said a soft cockney voice in Craven's ear. He started, and walked on quickly. In Lady Sellingworth's conduct that night, in the last look she had given him, there was mystery.
Indeed, in his preoccupation with Craven's affairs and Adela Sellingworth's possible indiscretions really he knew of no gentler word to apply to what he had in mind he had entirely forgotten that Fanny Cronin's charming profession of sitting in deep arm-chairs, reposing on luxurious sofas, and lying in perfect French beds, might, indeed would, be drastically interfered with by Miss Van Tuyn's marriage.
Nevertheless she had no intention of taking action against either of those who had hurt her. Beryl should have her triumph. Youth should be left in peace with its own cruelty. Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth's return to Berkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added the information that she had arrived on the previous Saturday.
Life brings gifts to almost everyone, and often the gift-bearer's approach is absolutely unexpected. So it had been in Lady Sellingworth's case. She had had no premonition that a change was preparing for her. Nothing had warned her to be on the alert when young feet turned into Berkeley Square on a certain Sunday in autumn and made towards her door.
The left wing of Ambrose Jennings's cloak flew out as he whirled into Regent Street by Lady Sellingworth's side. At the door of the Cafe Royal they stopped, and Miss Van Tuyn laid a hand on Lady Sellingworth's arm. "Do come in, dearest. It will really amuse you," she said urgently. "And I'll be truthful I want to show you off to the Georgians as my friend.
"So unlike the man who expressed a wish to be buried in Paris." Craven remembered at that moment Braybrooke's remark in the club that Lady Sellingworth's jewelry were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord ten years ago. Did Miss Van Tuyn know about that? He wondered as he murmured something non-committal.
Brand was a bachelor, and had long been a devoted adherent of Lady Sellingworth's, and people, of course, said that he was going to marry her. But they eventually came back from their long tour comfortably disengaged. Brand went back to his enormous home in Park Lane, and Lady Sellingworth settled down in number 18A Berkeley Square. She was now forty-one.
A tremulous sense of the fitness of things governed his whole life, presided as it were over all his actions and even over most of his thoughts. He instinctively shrank from everything that was bizarre, from everything that was, as he called it, "out of keeping." He was responsible for the introduction of young Craven into Adela Sellingworth's life.
On that afternoon the charm of Lady Sellingworth's quiet attention to her girl visitor seemed to Craven even greater than the charm of that girl visitor's vivid vitality.
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