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Updated: June 11, 2025
Even now when the idea presented itself to her she was inclined to dismiss it as too absurd for consideration. And yet Craven had not come back, although he must know she was expecting him. Perhaps Lady Sellingworth had made him go in against his will. Miss Van Tuyn remembered the photograph she had seen at Mrs. Ackroyd's. That woman had the face of one who was on the watch for new lovers.
But she had not gone to tell her regret at this death to Beryl, and Beryl had expressed no wish to see her. In her heart Lady Sellingworth hated humbug, and she knew, of course, that any pretence of real friendship between Beryl and her would be humbug in an acute form. She might in the future sometimes have to pretend, but she was resolved not to rush upon insincerity.
None of them had seen it, but Craven seemed to know all about it, and said it was an entertaining study of life behind the scenes at the opera, with a great singer as protagonist. "He was drawn, I believe, from a famous baritone." During a great part of her life Lady Sellingworth had been an ardent lover of the opera, and she had known many of the leading singers in Paris and London.
You come to me sent by Lady Sellingworth." Sir Seymour was startled. Was the fellow so brazen that he was going to allude to what had happened over ten years ago? That seemed incredible, but with such a man perhaps everything was possible. "It is like this!" continued Arabian, in a suave and explanatory voice. "Lady Sellingworth she hates Miss Van Tuyn. They have quarrelled about a young man.
"It would make very little difference to me," he said in a casual voice. "Now put on your coat." He helped her into the car, and they drove away from the sands and the links, from the sea and their mood by the sea. They drove through the darkness towards London, Lady Sellingworth and Arabian.
He had known perfectly well that she wished him to return. She had not even been subtle in conveying the wish to him. And yet he had defied it. Or perhaps Lady Sellingworth had defied it for him. Miss Van Tuyn was really as fond of Lady Sellingworth as she could be of a woman. She felt strongly the charm which so many others had felt.
As he made his comments he observed Craven closely with his small hazel eyes, but the young man showed no feeling, and Braybrooke began to think that really perhaps he had made a mountain out of a molehill, that he had done Adela Sellingworth an injustice. If she had really been inclined to any folly about his young friend she would certainly not have left London in this mysterious manner.
It was so in Lady Sellingworth's case, but for a long time the former woman dominated the latter, whose empire was to come later with white hair and a ravaged face. At the age of thirty-five, after some years of brilliant and even of despotic widowhood, she married again Lord Sellingworth.
Lady Sellingworth now looked at the clock. It was nearly half-past six. She had a lonely dinner, a lonely evening before her. Suddenly all her resignation seemed to leave her, to abandon her, as if it had had enough of her and could not bear to be with her for another minute. She saw her life as a desert, without one flower, one growing green thing in it.
He helped Miss Van Tuyn out of her coat, then took off his, and went to hang them on a stand against the wall. In doing this he turned, and for a moment showed his profile to Lady Sellingworth. She saw the line of his brown face, his arm raised, his head slightly thrown back. So that was Nicolas Arabian, the man all the women in the Coombe set were gossiping about! She could not see him very well.
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