who hope they are walking where everyone walks. Beaten paths are like
the front at Brighton on a Sunday morning. What do you say to our
coffee, dearest?"

"It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,"
Lady Sellingworth answered.

Then she turned to Craven.

"Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?"

"If you really don't mind? It isn't a habit with me, but I assure you I
know how to do it quite adequately."

"He's an artist," said Miss Van Tuyn. "He knows it's the only cigar that
really goes with Vesuvius. Do light up!"

"I'm thankful I came here to-night," he said. "I felt very dull and
terrifically English, so I turned to Soho as an antidote. The guitars
lured me in here. I was at the Embassy in Rome for a year. In the summer
we lived at the Villa Rosebery, near Naples. Ever since that time I've
had an almost childish love of guitars."

Miss Van Tuyn held up a hand and formed "Sh!" with her rosy lips.

"It's the Barcarola di Sorrento!" she whispered.

A silence fell in the narrow room. The Italian voices were hushed. The
padrona dreamed behind her counter with her large arms laid upon it,
like an Italian woman spread out on her balcony for an afternoon's