But Seymour Portman had seen through him at a first glance. Evidently that type of man had a power to trick women’s instincts, but was less successful with men. Perhaps Caroline was right, and the whole question was simply one of the lust of the eye.
Young Craven was good-looking too. But surely she had not been attracted to him, brought into sympathy with him merely because of that. She hoped not. She tried hard to think not. A woman of her age must surely be beyond the lure of mere looks in a man unconnected with the deeper things which make up personality.
And yet ten years ago she had been lured towards a loathsome and utterly abominable personality by mere looks. Certainly her nature inclined her to be a prey to just that—the lust of the eye.
(Caroline Briggs was horribly apposite in some of her remarks.)
She tried to reconstitute her evenings with Craven in her imagination, keeping the conversation exactly as it had been, but giving him a thoroughly plain face, a bad complexion, mouse-coloured feeble hair, undistinguished features, ordinary eyes, and a short broad figure. Certainly it would have made a difference. But how much difference? Perhaps a good deal. But he had enjoyed the conversation as much as she had, and there was nothing in her appearance now to arouse the lust of the eye. Suddenly it occurred to her that she possessed now at least one advantage. If a young man were attracted by her it must be her personality, herself in fact, which attracted him. It could not be her looks. And surely it is better to attract by your personality than by your looks.
A woman’s voice whispered within her just then, “It is better to attract by both. Then you are safe.”
She moved uneasily. Then she got up and went to the telephone. The chances were in favour of Craven’s being in his flat by now.
As she put her hand on the receiver, but before she took it down, Lady Sellingworth thought of the Paris railway station, of what had happened there, of the stern resolution she had come to that day, of the tears of blood that had sealed it, of the will that had enabled her to stick to it during ten years. And she thought, too, of that phrase of Caroline Briggs’s concerning the lust of the eye.
“I won’t go!” she said to herself.
And she took the receiver down.