Craven remembered at that moment Braybrooke’s remark in the club that Lady Sellingworth’s jewelry were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord ten years ago. Did Miss Van Tuyn know about that? He wondered as he murmured something non-committal.
Miss Van Tuyn now tried to extract a word of honour promise from Lady Sellingworth to visit her in Paris, where, it seemed, she lived very independently with a dame de compagnie, who was always in one room with a cold reading the novels of Paul Bourget. (“Bourget keeps on writing for her!” the gay girl said, not without malice.)
But Lady Sellingworth evaded her gently.
“I’m too lazy for Paris now,” she said. “I no longer care for moving about. This old town house of mine has become to me like my shell. I’m lazy, Beryl; I’m lazy. You don’t know what that is; nor do you, Mr. Craven. Even you, Seymour, you don’t know. For you are a man of action, and at Court there is always movement. But I, my friends—” She gave Craven a deliciously kind yet impersonal smile. “I am a contemplative. There is nothing oriental about me, but I am just a quiet British contemplative, untouched by the unrest of your age.”
“But it’s your age, too!” cried Miss Van Tuyn.
“No, dear. I was an Edwardian.”
“I wish I had known you then!” said Miss Van Tuyn impulsively.
“You would not have known me then,” returned Lady Sellingworth, with the slightest possible stress on the penultimate word.
Then she changed the conversation. Craven felt that she was not fond of talking about herself.