life. In Paris she did exactly what she chose, and quite openly. There
was no secrecy in her methods. In London she pursued the same housetop
course. She seldom troubled about a chaperon, and would calmly give a
lunch at the Carlton without one if she wanted to. Indeed, she had been
seen there more than once, making one of a party of six, five of whom
were men. She did not care for women as a sex, and said so in the
plainest language, denouncing their mentality as still afflicted by a
narrowness that smacked of the harem. But for certain women she had a
cult, and among these women Lady Sellingworth held a prominent, perhaps
the most prominent, place.

Three days after his visit to the Hyde Park Hotel Craven, having no
dinner invitation and feeling disinclined for the well-known formality
of the club where he often dined, resolved to yield to a faint
inclination towards a very mild Bohemianism which sometimes beset him,
and made his way in a day suit to Soho seeking a restaurant. He walked
first down Greek Street, then turned into Frith Street. There he peeped
into two or three restaurants without making up his mind to sample their
cooking, and presently was attracted by a sound of guitars giving forth
with almost Neapolitan fervour the well-known tune, "O Sole Mio!" The
music issued from an unpretentious building over the door of which was
inscribed, "Ristorante Bella Napoli."

It was a cold, dark evening, and Craven was feeling for the moment
rather depressed and lonely. The music drew his thoughts to dear Italy,
to sunshine, a great blue bay, brown, half-naked fishermen pulling in
nets from the deep with careless and Pagan gestures, to the thoughtless,
delicious life only possible in the golden heart of the South. He did
not know the restaurant, but he hesitated no longer. Never mind what the
cooking was like; he would eat to the sound of those guitars which he