Time passed on. Lady Sellingworth went about everywhere with a smiling carefully-made-up face and a heart full of dust and ashes.
But even then she could not make up her mind finally to abandon all pretence of youth, all hope of youth’s distractions, pleasures, even joys. She had a terribly obstinate nature, it seemed, a terribly strong lust after life.
Even her imp could not lash her into acceptance of the inevitable, could not drive her with his thongs of irony into the dignity which only comes when the human being knows how to give up, and when.
But what the imp could not achieve was eventually achieved by a man, whose name Lady Sellingworth did not know.
This was how it happened.
One day when Lady Sellingworth was walking down Bond Street—it was in the morning and she was with the Duchess of Wellingborough—an extraordinarily handsome young man, whom neither of them knew, met them and passed by. He was tall, brown skinned, with soft, very intelligent brown eyes, and strong, manly and splendidly cut features. His thick brown hair was brushed, his little brown moustache was cut, like a Guardsman’s. But he was certainly not a Guardsman. He was not even an Englishman, although he was dressed in a smart country suit made evidently by a first-rate London tailor. There was something faintly exotic about his eyes, and his way of holding himself and moving, which suggested to Lady Sellingworth either Spain or South America. She was not quite sure which. He gave her a long look as he went by, and she felt positive that he turned to glance after her when he had passed her. But this she never knew, as naturally she did not turn her head.
“What an extraordinarily good-looking man that was!” said the Duchess of Wellingborough. “I wonder who he is. If—,” and she mentioned a well-known Spanish duke, “had a brother that might be the man. Do you know who he is?”
“No,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“Well, he must know who you are.”
“Why?”