ered with a telegram on a salver which she offered to
Penelope. The latter slit open the envelope without glancing at the
address and uttered a sharp exclamation of dismay as she read the brief
communication it contained.

Kitty leaned forward.

"What is it, Penny? Not bad news?"

"It's for Nan," returned Penelope shortly. "You can read it."

Kitty perused it in silence.

"_Am in town. Shall call this afternoon on chance of finding you
in_.--ROOKE."

"The very last person we wanted to blow in here just now," commented
Kitty as she returned the wire.

Penelope slipped it back into its envelope and replaced it on the
salver.

"Take it to Miss Davenant," she told the maid quietly. "And explain
that you brought it to me by mistake."

CHAPTER VI

A FORGOTTEN FAN

Meanwhile, in the next room, Peter and Nan, having completed their scheme
of decoration with "smilax and things," were resting from their labours
and smoking sociably together.

Nan cast a reflective eye upon the table.

"You don't think it looks too much like a shrubbery where you have to
hunt for the cakes, do you?" she suggested.

"Certainly I don't," replied Peter promptly. "If there is some slight
confusion occasioned by that trail of smilax round the pink sugar-icing
cake it merely adds to its attractiveness. The charm of mystery, you
know!"

"I believe if Maryon were here he would sweep it all on to the floor in
disgust!" observed Nan suddenly. "He'd say we'd forfeited simplicity."

"Maryon Rooke, the artist, you mean?"

The warm colour rushed into Nan's face, and she glanced at Peter with
startled--almost frightened--eyes. She could not conceive why the sudden
recollection of Rooke should have sprung into her mind at this particular
moment. With difficulty her lips framed the monosyllable "Yes."

Peter bent forward. They were sitting together on the wide window-seat,
the sound of the traffic from below coming murmuringly to their ears like
some muted diapason.

"Nan"--Peter spoke very quietly--"Nan--was he the man?"

She nodded voicelessly. Peter made a quick gesture as though to lay his
hand over hers, then checked it abruptly.

"My dear," he said, "do you still care?"

"No, I don't think so," she answered uncertainly. "I--I'm not sure. Oh,
Peter, how difficult life is!"

He assented briefly. He knew very well how difficult.

"I can't imagine why I thought of Maryon just now," went on Nan, a
puzzled