Part 7 (1/2)
”Oh, yes, long ago. I only go to Aix now for a cure, and sometimes in the early spring to Cap Martin.”
”The hotel?”
”Yes; the hotel. I like the pine woods.”
”So do I. But, to my mind, there's no longer a vestige of real romance on the French Riviera. Too many grand dukes have pa.s.sed over it.”
Lady Sellingworth laughed.
”But I don't seek romance when I leave London.”
”No?”
She looked oddly doubtful for a moment. Then she said:
”Mr. Craven, will you tell us the truth?”
”It depends. What about?”
”Oh, a very simple matter.”
”I'll do my best, but all men are liars.”
”We only ask you to do your best.”
”We!” he said, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth.
”Yes--yes,” she said. ”I go solid with my s.e.x.”
”Then--what is it?”
”Do you ever go travelling--ever, without a secret hope of romance meeting you on your travels, somewhere, somehow, wonderfully, suddenly?
Do you?”
He thought for a moment. Then he said:
”Honestly, I don't think I ever do.”
”There!” said Miss Van Tuyn triumphantly. ”Nor do I.”
She looked half defiantly, half inquisitively at Lady Sellingworth.
”My dear Beryl!” said the latter, ”for all these lacks in your temperament you must wait.”
”Wait? For how long?”
”Till you are fifty, perhaps.”
”I know I shall want romance at fifty.”
”Let us say sixty, then.”