A large square hall was before Craven, with a hooded chair and a big
fire burning on a wide hearth. Beyond was a fine staircase, which had a
balustrade of beautifully wrought ironwork with gold ornamentations. He
gave his hat, coat and stick to the footman--after taking his name,
the butler had moved away, and was pausing not far from the
staircase--Craven suddenly felt as if he stood in a London more solid,
more dignified, more peaceful, even more gentlemanlike, than the London
he was accustomed to. There seemed to be in this house a large calm, an
almost remote stillness, which put modern Bond Street, just around the
corner, at a very great distance. As he followed the butler, walking
softly, up the beautiful staircase, Craven was conscious of a flavour in
this mansion which was new to him, but which savoured of spacious times,
when the servant question was not acute, when decent people did not
move from house to house like gipsies changing camp, when flats were
unknown--spacious times and more elegant times than ours.

The butler and Craven gained a large landing on which was displayed
a remarkable collection of oriental china. The butler opened a tall
mahogany door and bent his head again to receive the murmur of
Craven's name. It was announced, and Craven found himself in a great
drawing-room, at the far end of which, by a fire, were sitting three
people. They were Lady Sellingworth, the faithful Sir Seymour Portman,
and a beautiful girl, slim, fair, with an athletic figure, and vividly
intelligent, though rather sarcastic, violet eyes. This was Miss Beryl
Van Tuyn. (Craven did not know who she was, though he recognized at
once the erect figure, faithful, penetrating eyes and curly white
hair--cauliflower hair--of the general, whom he had often seen about
town and "in attendance" on royalty at functions.)