hands, faded eyes.

But her eyes were not faded. They still shone like lamps. Was she,
perhaps, the victim of a youthful soul hidden in an old body, like
trembling Love caged in a decaying tabernacle from which it could not
escape?

He looked up. At the same moment Lady Sellingworth looked up. Their eyes
met. She smiled faintly, and her eyes mocked something or someone; fate,
perhaps, him, or herself. He did not know what or whom they mocked.

The music stopped, and, after some applause, conversation broke out
again.

"Have you given up Italy as you have given up Paris?" Miss Van Tuyn
asked of Lady Sellingworth.

"Oh, yes, long ago. I only go to Aix now for a cure, and sometimes in
the early spring to Cap Martin."

"The hotel?"

"Yes; the hotel. I like the pine woods."

"So do I. But, to my mind, there's no longer a vestige of real romance
on the French Riviera. Too many grand dukes have passed over it."

Lady Sellingworth laughed.

"But I don't seek romance when I leave London."