December Love Part 26

"She would deny that. She said, in my presence and in that of Sir Seymour Portman and Miss Van Tuyn, that she did not belong to this age."

"What an--what an extraordinary statement!" said Braybrooke, drinking down his second c.o.c.ktail at a gulp.

"She said she was--or rather, had been--an Edwardian. She would not have it that she belonged to the present day at all."

"A whim! It must have been a whim! The best of women are subject to caprice. It is the greatest mistake to cla.s.s yourself as belonging to the past. It dates you. It--it--it practically inters you!"

"I think she meant that her glory was Edwardian, that her real life was then. I don't think she chooses to realize how immensely attractive she is now in the Georgian days."

"Well, I really can't understand such a view. I shall--when I meet her--I shall really venture to remonstrate with her about it. And besides, apart from the personal question, one owes something to one's contemporaries. Upon my word, I begin to understand at last why certain very charming women haven't a good word to say for Adela Sellingworth."

"You mean the 'old guard,' I suppose?"

"I don't wish to mention any names. It is always a mistake to mention names. One cannot guard against it too carefully. But having done what she did ten years ago dear Adela Sellingworth should really--but it is not for me to criticise her. Only there is nothing people--women--are more sensitive about than the question of age. No one likes to be laid on the shelf. Adela Sellingworth has chosen to--well--one might feel such a very drastic step to be quite uncalled for--quite uncalled for.

And so--but you haven't told me! Did Adela Sellingworth allow herself to be persuaded to go to the Cafe Royal?"

"No, she didn't."

"Thank G.o.d for that!" said the world's governess, looking immensely relieved.

"I escorted her to Berkeley Square."

"Good! good!"

"But we walked to the door of the Cafe Royal."

"What--down Shaftesbury Avenue?"

"Yes!"

"Past the Cafe Monico and--Piccadilly Circus?"

"Yes!"

"What time was it?"

"Well after ten."

"Very unsuitable! I must say that--very unsuitable! That corner by the Monico at night is simply chock-a-block--I--I should say, teems, that's the word--teems with people whom n.o.body knows or could ever wish to know. Beryl Van Tuyn should really be more careful. She grows quite reckless. And Adela Sellingworth is so tall and unmistakable. I do hope n.o.body saw her."

"I'm afraid scores of people did!"

"No, no! I mean people she knows--women especially."

"I don't think she would care."

"Her friends would care _for_ her!" retorted Braybrooke, almost severely. "To retire from life is all very well. I confess I think it a mistake. But that is merely one man's opinion. But to retire from life, a great life such as hers was, and then after ten years to burst forth into--into the type of existence represented by Shaftesbury Avenue and the Cafe Royal, that would be unheard of, and really almost unforgivable."

"It would, in fact, be old wildness," said Craven, with a faint touch of sarcasm.

"Old wildness! What a very strange expression!"

"But I think it covers the suggested situation. And we know what old wildness is--or if we don't some of the 'old guard' can teach us. But Lady Sellingworth will never be the one to give us such a horrible lesson. If there is a woman in London with true dignity, dignity of the soul, she has it. She has almost too much of it even. I could almost wish she had less."

Braybrooke looked suddenly surprised and then alertly observant.

"Less dignity?" he queried, after a slight but significant pause.

"Yes."

"But can a _grande dame_, as she is, ever have too much dignity of the soul?"

"I think even such a virtue as that can be carried to morbidity. It may become a weapon against the happiness of the one who has it. Those who have no dignity are disgusting. As Lady Sellingworth said to me, they create nausea--"

"Nausea!" interrupted Braybrooke, in an almost startled voice.

"Yes--in others. But those who have too much dignity wrap themselves up in a secret reserve, and reserve shuts out natural happiness, I think, and creates loneliness. I'm sure Lady Sellingworth feels terribly alone in that beautiful house. I know she does."

"Has she told you so?"

"Good heavens--no. But she never would."

"She need not be alone," observed Braybrooke. "She could have a companion to-morrow."

"I can't imagine her with a f.a.n.n.y Cronin."

"I don't mean a _dame de compagnie_. I mean a husband."

Craven's ardent blue eyes looked a question.

"Seymour Portman is always there waiting and hoping."

"Sir Seymour?" cried Craven.

"Well, why not?" said Braybrooke, almost with severity. "Why not?"

"But his age!"

The world's governess, who was older than Sir Seymour, though not a soul knew it, looked more severe.

"His age would be in every way suitable to Adele Sellingworth's," he said firmly.

"Oh, but--"

"Go on!"

"I can't see an old man like Sir Seymour as _her_ husband. Oh, no! It wouldn't do. She would never marry such an old man. I am certain of that."

Braybrooke pinched his lips together and felt for his beard.