“Oh, I don’t know! You’re a busy man, and have lots of engagements. Let us sit by the fire.”
“Yes.”
They sat down, and there was a moment of silence. For once Miss Van Tuyn seemed slightly embarrassed—not quite at her ease. Craven did not help her. He still remembered the encounter in Glebe Place with a feeling of anger. He still felt that he moved in a certain darkness, that both Lady Sellingworth and Miss Van Tuyn had been unkind to him, had treated him if not badly, at any rate in a way that was unfriendly, and, to him, inexplicable. He did not want to seem hurt, but, on the other hand, he did not feel that it was incumbent upon him to rush forward with gracious eagerness, or to show any keen desire for the old, intimate relations. So he just sat there trying not to look stiff, but not making any effort to look charming and sympathetic.
“Have you seen Adela lately?” Miss Van Tuyn said at last, breaking the silence.
“No,” he said. “Not since the night when we met in the Bella Napoli.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!”
“Why too bad?”
“I thought you were such friends!”
“Scarcely that, I think,” replied Craven, in his most definitely English manner. “I like Lady Sellingworth very much, but she has swarms of friends, and I can’t expect her to bother very much about me.”
“But I don’t think she has swarms of friends.”