Part 6 (2/2)

”And ask them to play the Sicilian Pastorale, and 'A Mezzanotte,' and the Barcarola di Sorrento, and _not_ to play 'Funiculi, Funicula.' Do you mind?”

”Of course not! But do let me--”

”No, no! This is my little treat to Lady Sellingworth. She has never been here before.”

Craven went round to the musicians and carried out his directions. As he did so he saw adoring looks of comprehension come into their dark faces, and, turning, he caught a wonderful smile that was meant for them flickering on the soft lips of Miss Van Tuyn. That smile was as provocative, as definitely full of the siren quality, as if it had dawned for the only lover, instead of for three humble Italians, ”hairdressers in the daytime,” as Miss Van Tuyn explained to Craven while she poured out his coffee.

”I often come here,” she added. ”You're surprised, I can see.”

”I must say I am,” said Craven. ”I thought your beat lay rather in the direction of the Carlton, the Ritz, and Claridge's.”

”You see how little he knows me!” she said, turning to Lady Sellingworth.

”Beryl does not always tread beaten paths,” said Lady Sellingworth to Craven.

”I hate beaten paths. One meets all the dull people on them, the people who hope they are walking where everyone walks. Beaten paths are like the front at Brighton on a Sunday morning. What do you say to our coffee, dearest?”

”It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,”

Lady Sellingworth answered.

Then she turned to Craven.

”Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?”

”If you really don't mind? It isn't a habit with me, but I a.s.sure you I know how to do it quite adequately.”

”He's an artist,” said Miss Van Tuyn. ”He knows it's the only cigar that really goes with Vesuvius. Do light up!”

”I'm thankful I came here to-night,” he said. ”I felt very dull and terrifically English, so I turned to Soho as an antidote. The guitars lured me in here. I was at the Emba.s.sy in Rome for a year. In the summer we lived at the Villa Rosebery, near Naples. Ever since that time I've had an almost childish love of guitars.”

Miss Van Tuyn held up a hand and formed ”s.h.!.+” with her rosy lips.

”It's the Barcarola di Sorrento!” she whispered.

A silence fell in the narrow room. The Italian voices were hushed. The padrona dreamed behind her counter with her large arms laid upon it, like an Italian woman spread out on her balcony for an afternoon's watching of the street below her window. And Craven let himself go to the music, as so many English people only let themselves go when something Italian is calling them. On his left Miss Van Tuyn, with one arm leaning on the table, listened intently, but not so intently that she forgot to watch Craven and to keep track of his mind. On his right Lady Sellingworth sat very still. She had put away her only half-smoked cigarette. Her eyes looked down on the table cloth. Her very tall figure was held upright, but without any stiffness. One of her hands was hidden. The other, in a long white glove, rested on the table, and presently the fingers of it began gently to close and unclose, making, as they did this, a faint shuffling noise against the cloth.

Miss Van Tuyn glanced at those fingers and then again at Craven, but for the moment he did not notice her. He was standing by the little harbour at the Villa Rosebery, looking across the bay to Capri on a warm summer evening. And the sea people were in his thoughts. How often had he envied them their lives, as men envy those whose lives are utterly different from theirs!

But presently Miss Van Tuyn's persistent and vigorous mind must have got some hold on his, for he began to remember her beauty and to feel the lure of it in the music. And then, almost simultaneously, he was conscious of Lady Sellingworth, of her old age and of her departed beauty. And he felt her loss in the music.

Could such a woman enjoy listening to such music? Must it not rather bring a subtle pain into her heart, the pain that Italy brings to her devotees, when the years have stolen from them the last possibilities of personal romance? For a moment Craven imaginatively projected himself into old age, saw himself with white hair, a lined face, heavily-veined hands, faded eyes.

But her eyes were not faded. They still shone like lamps. Was she, perhaps, the victim of a youthful soul hidden in an old body, like trembling Love caged in a decaying tabernacle from which it could not escape?

He looked up. At the same moment Lady Sellingworth looked up. Their eyes met. She smiled faintly, and her eyes mocked something or someone; fate, perhaps, him, or herself. He did not know what or whom they mocked.

The music stopped, and, after some applause, conversation broke out again.

”Have you given up Italy as you have given up Paris?” Miss Van Tuyn asked of Lady Sellingworth.

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