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Updated: June 11, 2025
"You have that already." She looked at him satirically. "Do you know you're a terrible humbug?" she said. "And are not you?" "No; I think I show myself very much as I really am." "Can a woman do that?" he said, with sudden moodiness. "It depends. Mrs. Ackroyde can and Lady Wrackley can't." "And Lady Sellingworth?" he asked. "I'm afraid she is a bit of a humbug," said Miss Van Tuyn, without venom.
She might have been in that spacious room, too, if she had not been stupid. "I want to ask you something about Lady Sellingworth," she continued. "Come a little nearer." Garstin shifted his chair. "But I don't know her," he said, rumpling his hair with an air of boredom. "An old society woman! What's the good of that to me? What have I to do with dowagers? Bow wow dowagers! Even Rembrandt "
But not believing in the soul he took no trouble about it. Lady Sellingworth had this man at her feet. Nevertheless, in a certain way he dominated her. In hard mental power he was much her superior, and her mind became gradually subservient to his in many subtle ways.
But presently, with a sort of strong deliberation, his gaze was turned on Lady Sellingworth, and she knew at once that he had seen her when he came in. She met his gaze for an instant, and this time seemed to be definitely aware of some mysterious thread of sympathy between her and him.
Nevertheless he was decidedly curious about the good-looking stranger who had been seen in Glebe Place. He had a retentive memory, and had not forgotten Dick Garstin's extraordinary remark about the blackmailer. Braybrooke was not mistaken about Craven. The information about Adela Sellingworth had renewed Craven's hot sense of injury. Braybrooke did not understand that.
Age, if properly met and suitably faced that is, with dignity and self-respect, such as Adela Sellingworth undoubtedly shows has no reason for self-mockery; whereas youth, although charming and delightful might well laugh occasionally at its own foolishness." "Ah, but it never does!"
On the following afternoon Craven called on Lady Sellingworth about five o'clock and was told by the new footman in a rather determined manner that she was "not at home." "I hope her ladyship is quite well?" he said. "I believe so, sir," replied the man. "Her ladyship has been out driving to-day." "Please give her that card. Wait one moment."
In her set she was called "the peripatetic pug," but she had none of the pug's snoring laziness. Presently someone took her away to play bridge, and for a moment Lady Sellingworth was standing alone. She was close to a great window which gave on to the terrace at the back of the house facing the falling gardens and the woods. She looked out, then looked across the room.
These two women had seen Lady Sellingworth preferred before her by a mere boy, had seen her beauty and youth go for nothing beside a woman of sixty's fascination. There must be something quite extraordinary in Craven. He must be utterly unlike other young men. She began to wonder about him intensely.
And the lady of the house was ideally right in it. He wondered whether in the future he would often be there, whether Lady Sellingworth would allow him to be one of the few real intimates to whom her door was open. He hoped so; he believed so; but he was not quite certain about it. For there was something elusive about her, not insincere but just that elusive.
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