Claridge's was close by. It would be something to do. If he could not see Lady Sellingworth he wanted to talk about her. And at that moment his obscure irritation made him turn towards youth. Old age had cheated him. Well, he was young; he would seek consolation!

At Claridge's he inquired for Miss Van Tuyn, and was told she was out, had been out since the morning. Craven was pulling his card-case out of his pocket when he heard a voice say: "Are there any letters for me?" He swung round and there stood Miss Van Tuyn quite near him. For an instant she did not see him, and he had time to note that she looked even unusually vivid and brilliant. An attendant handed her some letters. She took them, turned and saw Craven.

"I had just asked for you," he said, taking off his hat.

"Oh! How nice of you!"

Her eyes were shining. He felt a controlled excitement in her. Her face seemed to be trying to tell something which her mind would not choose to tell. He wondered what it was, this secret which he divined.

"Come upstairs and we'll have a talk in my sitting-room."

She looked at him narrowly, he thought, as they went together to the lift. She seemed to have a little less self-possession than usual, even to be slightly self-conscious and because of that watchful.

When they were in her sitting-room she took off her hat, as if tired, put it on a table and sat down by the fire.

"I've been out all day," she said.

"Yes? Are you still having painting lessons?"

"That's it--painting lessons. d.i.c.k is an extraordinary man."

"You mean d.i.c.k Garstin. I don't know him."

"He's absolutely unscrupulous, but a genius. I believe genius always is unscrupulous. I am sure of it. It cannot be anything else."

"That's a pity."

"I don't know that it is."

"But how does d.i.c.k Garstin show his unscrupulousness?"

Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly wary.

"Oh--in all sorts of ways. He uses people. He looks on people as mere material. He doesn't care for their feelings. He doesn't care what happens to them. If he gets out of them what he wants it's enough. After that they may go to perdition, and he wouldn't stretch out a finger to save them."

"What a delightful individual!"

"Ah!--you don't understand genius."

Craven felt rather nettled. He cared a good deal for the arts, and had no wish to be set among the Philistines.

"And--do you?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. I'm not creative, but I'm very comprehending. Artists of all kinds feel that instinctively. That's why they come round me in Paris."

"Yes, you do understand!" he acknowledged, remembering her enthusiasm at the theatre. "But I think _you_ are unscrupulous, too."

He said it hardily, looking straight at her, and wondering what she had been doing that afternoon before she arrived at the hotel.

She smiled, making her eyes narrow.

"Then perhaps I am half-way to genius."

"Would you be willing to sacrifice all the moral qualities if you could have genius in exchange?"

"You can't expect me to say so. But it would be grand to have power over men."

"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.

"I wonder when she'll be back?"

"Back? Where from?"

"Surely you know she had gone abroad?"

The look of surprise in Miss Van Tuyn's face was so obviously genuine that Craven added:

"You didn't? Well, she has gone away for some time."

"Where to?"

"Somewhere on the Riviera, I believe. Probably Cap Martin. But letters are not to be forwarded."

"At this time of year! Has she gone away alone?"

"I suppose so."

Miss Van Tuyn looked at him with a sort of cold, almost hostile shrewdness.

"And she told you she was going?"

"Why should she tell me?" he said, with a hint of defiance.