Sir Seymour, who had the self-contained and rather detached manner of
the old courtier, mingled with the straight-forward self-possession of
the old soldier thoroughly accustomed to dealing with men in difficult
moments, threw in a word or two occasionally. Although a grave, even a
rather sad-looking man, he was evidently entertained by Miss Van Tuyn's
volubility and almost passionate, yet not vulgar, egoism. Probably he
thought such a lovely girl had a right to admire herself. She talked of
herself in modern Paris with the greatest enthusiasm, cleverly grouping
Paris, its gardens, its monuments, its pictures, its brilliant men and
women as a decor around the one central figure--Miss Beryl Van Tuyn.

"Why do you never come to Paris, dearest?" she presently said to Lady
Sellingworth. "You used to know it so very well, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes; I had an apartment in Paris for years. But that was almost
before you were born," said the husky, sympathetic voice of her hostess.

Craven glanced at her. She was smiling.

"Surely you loved Paris, didn't you?" said Miss Van Tuyn.

"Very much, and understood it very well."

"Oh--that! She understands everything, doesn't she, Sir Seymour?"

"Perhaps we ought to except mathematics and military tactics," he
replied, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth half humorous, half
affectionate. "But certainly everything connected with the art of living
is her possession."