face. The betraying colour flew up under
her skin. She understood what he intended to convey as well as though he
had clothed his thought in words.

"Having none, partner?"

Mallory's kindly, drawling voice recalled her to the game, and she made
an effort to focus her attention on the cards. But it was quite useless.
Her play grew wilder and more erratic with each hand that was dealt,
until at last a good no-trump call, completely thrown away by her
disastrous tactics, brought the rubber to an end.

"You're not in your usual form this afternoon, Nan," remarked one of her
opponents as they all rose from the table. Other tables, too, were
breaking up and some of the guests preparing to leave.

"No. I've played abominably," she acquiesced. "I'm sorry,
partner"--turning to Peter. "It must be the weather. This heat's
intolerable."

He put her apology aside with a quick gesture.

"There's thunder in the air, I think. You shouldn't have troubled to
play if you didn't feel inclined."

Nan threw him a glance of gratitude--Peter never seemed to fail her
either in big or little things. Then, having settled accounts with her
opponents, she moved away to join the chattering knot of departing guests
congregated round the doorway.

Mallory's eyes followed her thoughtfully. He had already surmised that
Maryon Rooke was the sender of the telegram, and he could see how
unmistakably his sudden reappearance had shaken her. He felt baffled.
Did the man still hold her? Was all the striving of the last few months
to prove useless? Those long hours of self-effacement when he had tried
by every means in his power to restore Nan to a normal interest in life,
to be the good comrade she needed at no matter what cost to himself,
demanding nothing in return! For it had been a hard struggle to be
constantly with the woman he loved and yet keep himself in hand. To
Mallory, Rooke's return seemed grotesquely inopportune.

He was roused from his thoughts to the realisation that people were
leaving. Everyone appeared to be talking at once and the air was full of
the murmur of wins and losses and of sharp-edged criticism of "my
partner's play." Maryon Rooke alone showed no signs of moving, but
remained standing a little apart near the window, an unlit cigarette in
his hand.

"Penelope, do come back to Green Street with me." Kitty's voice was
beseeching. "My little milliner was to have had a couple of hats ready
for me this