watching of the street below her window. And Craven let himself go
to the music, as so many English people only let themselves go when
something Italian is calling them. On his left Miss Van Tuyn, with one
arm leaning on the table, listened intently, but not so intently that
she forgot to watch Craven and to keep track of his mind. On his right
Lady Sellingworth sat very still. She had put away her only half-smoked
cigarette. Her eyes looked down on the table cloth. Her very tall
figure was held upright, but without any stiffness. One of her hands
was hidden. The other, in a long white glove, rested on the table, and
presently the fingers of it began gently to close and unclose, making,
as they did this, a faint shuffling noise against the cloth.

Miss Van Tuyn glanced at those fingers and then again at Craven, but for
the moment he did not notice her. He was standing by the little harbour
at the Villa Rosebery, looking across the bay to Capri on a warm summer
evening. And the sea people were in his thoughts. How often had he
envied them their lives, as men envy those whose lives are utterly
different from theirs!

But presently Miss Van Tuyn's persistent and vigorous mind must have got
some hold on his, for he began to remember her beauty and to feel
the lure of it in the music. And then, almost simultaneously, he was
conscious of Lady Sellingworth, of her old age and of her departed
beauty. And he felt her loss in the music.

Could such a woman enjoy listening to such music? Must it not rather
bring a subtle pain into her heart, the pain that Italy brings to her
devotees, when the years have stolen from them the last possibilities
of personal romance? For a moment Craven imaginatively projected himself
into old age, saw himself with white hair, a lined face, heavily-veined