Tuyn, leaving Sir Seymour Portman behind him.

Miss Van Tuyn was staying with a friend at the Hyde Park Hotel, and, as
she said she wanted some air, Craven offered to accompany her there on
foot.

"Do!" she said in her frank and very conscious way. "I'm afraid of
London on a Sunday."

"Afraid!"

"As I'm afraid of a heavy, dull person with a morose expression. Please
don't be angry."

Craven smiled.

"I know! Paris is much lighter in hand than London on a Sunday."

"Isn't it? But there are people in London! Isn't _she_ a precious
person?"

"Lady Sellingworth?"

"Yes. You have marvellous old women in London who do all that we young
people do, and who look astonishing. They might almost be somewhere in
the thirties when one knows they are really in the sixties. They play
games, ride, can still dance, have perfect digestions, sit up till two
in the morning and are out shopping in Bond Street as fresh as paint
by eleven, having already written dozens of acceptances to invitations,
arranged dinners, theatre parties, heaven knows what! Made of cast iron,