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On the night of the dinner in Soho she had attempted to persuade him to go back to the restaurant and to see Beryl home. And now here in this letter she returned to the matter. "Be nice to her. I don't think she has many real friends in London." "Go to see Beryl; don't come to see me." Between the lines of Lady Sellingworth's letter Craven read those words and wondered at the ways of women.
"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.
Lady Sellingworth's eyes were very dark and still magnificent, like two brilliant lamps in her head. A keen intelligence gazed out of them. There was often something half sad, half mocking in their expression. But Craven thought that they mocked at herself rather than at others. She was very plainly dressed in black, and her dress was very high at the neck.
She had happened to mention that she had seen his friend, "that wonderful-looking Lady Sellingworth," dining at the Bella Napoli on a recent evening. Naturally Braybrooke supposed that the allusion was to the night of Lady Sellingworth's dinner with Beryl Van Tuyn, and he spoke of the lovely girl as Lady Sellingworth's companion.
It was in his day that she developed that noticeable and almost reckless egoism which is summed up by the laconic saying, "after me the deluge." For Lord Sellingworth's atheism was not of the type which leads to active humanitarianism, but of the opposite type which leads to an exquisite selfishness. And he led his wife with him.
One evening, some ten days later, before any rumour of Lady Sellingworth's new decision had gone about in the world of London, before even Braybrooke knew, on coming home from the Foreign Office Craven found a note lying on the table in the tiny hall of his flat. He picked it up and saw Miss Van Tuyn's handwriting.
Like her first marriage this marriage was apparently a success. Lord Sellingworth's cleverness fascinated his wife's brain, and led her to value the pursuits of the intellect more than she had ever done before. She was proud of his knowledge and wit, proud of being loved by a man of obvious value. After this marriage her house became more than ever the resort of the brilliant men of the day.
She did not love them and cast them to death like Tamara of the Caucasus. No; but she required of them the pause on their travels, which was a tribute to her power. No one must pass her by as if she were an ordinary woman. Probably there is no weed in all the human garden which grows so fast as vanity. Lady Sellingworth's vanity grew and grew with the years until it almost devoured her.
Lady Archie said that the motto of Lady Sellingworth's life at that period was 'after me the deluge, and that she had so dinned it into the ears of her friends that when she let her hair grow white they all instinctively put up umbrellas." "And yet the deluge never came." "It never does. I could almost wish it would." "Now?" "No; after me."
As he did so he glanced at Miss Van Tuyn. His chair was certainly nearer to hers than to Lady Sellingworth's, much nearer. Syng had sat in it and must have moved it. As she half turned and said something to Craven her bare silky arm touched his sleeve, and their faces were very near together. Her eyes spoke to him definitely, called him to be young again with her.
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