the "little bloodthirsty thing" with the round Russian face, of Miss Van
Tuyn in the midst of it all, sitting by the side of Enid Blunt, smoking
cigarettes, and searching the men's faces for the looks which were food
for her craving. And he loved the contrast which was given to him.

"Do go in and sit by the fire, and I'll come in a moment," said the
husky voice he was learning to love. "I'm just going to take off my
hat."

Craven opened the great mahogany door and went in.

The big room was very dimly lighted by two standard electric lamps, one
near the fireplace, the other in a distant corner where a grand piano
stood behind a huge china bowl in which a pink azalea was blooming.
There was a low armchair near the fire by a sofa. He sat down in it,
and picked up a book which lay on a table close beside it. What did she
read--this book of wisdom?

"_Musiciens d'aujourd'hui_," by Romain Rolland.

Craven thought he was disappointed. There was no revelation for him in
that. He held the book on his knee, and wondered what he had expected
to find, what type of book. What special line of reading was Lady
Sellingworth's likely to be? He could imagine her dreaming over "Wisdom
and Destiny," or perhaps over "The Book of Pity and of Death." On the
other hand, it seemed quite natural to think of her smiling her mocking
smile over a work of delicate, or even of bitter, irony, such as
Anatole France's story of Pilate at the Baths of Baies, or study of
the Penguins. He could not think that she cared for sentimental books,
though she might perhaps have a taste for works dealing with genuine