“Don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps we are.”
She turned and laid a hand gently, almost caressingly, on Lady Sellingworth’s.
“I shall persist until I get you over to Paris,” she said. “I do want you to see my apartment, and my bronzes—particularly my bronzes. When were you last in Paris?”
“Passing through or staying—do you mean?”
“Staying.”
Lady Sellingworth was silent for an instant, and Craven saw the half sad, half mocking expression in her eyes.
“I haven’t stayed in Paris for ten years,” she said.
She glanced at Sir Seymour, who slightly bent his curly head as if in assent.
“It’s almost incredible, isn’t it, Mr. Craven?” said Miss Van Tuyn. “So unlike the man who expressed a wish to be buried in Paris.”