s been taken, and the strangeness and wonder and
glory of the new life have become ordinary and commonplace with the
sweet commonness of dear, familiar, daily things, then the old
friendship comes stealing back--deeper and more understanding, perhaps,
than in the days before one of the two friends had come into her
woman's kingdom.

Nan sat staring into the fire--for the first breath of autumn had
already chilled the air--trying to realise that to-day was actually the
eve of Penelope's wedding-day. It seemed incredible--even more
incredible that Kitty and she should have gone off laughing together to
see about some detail of the next day's arrangements which had been
overlooked.

She was suddenly conscious that if this were the eve of her own
marriage with Roger laughter would be far enough away from her.
Regarded dispassionately, her decision to marry him because she
couldn't marry the man she loved, seemed rather absurd and illogical.
It was like going into a library and, having discovered that the book
which you required was out, accepting one you didn't really want
instead--just because the librarian, who knew nothing whatever about
your tastes in literature, had offered it to you. You always began the
substitute hopefully and generally ended up by being thoroughly bored
with it and marvelling how on earth anybody could possibly have found
it interesting! Nan wondered if she would get bored with her
substituted volume.

She had rushed recklessly into her engagement, regarding marriage with
Roger much as though it were a stout set of palings with "No Right of
Way" written across them in large letters. Outside, the waves of
emotion might surge in vain, while within, she and Roger would settle
down to the humdrum placidity of married life. But the dull, ceaseless
ache at her heart made her sometimes question whether anything in the
world could keep at bay the insistent claim of love.

She tried to reassure herself. At least there would always remain her
music and the passionate delight of creative work. It was true she had
written nothing recently. She had been living at too high an emotional
strain to have any surplus energy for originating, and she knew from
experience that all creative work demands both strength and spirit,
heart and soul--everything that is in you, if it is to be worth while.

These and other disconnected thoughts flitted fugitively through her
mind as she sat waiting for Penelope's r