"

She omitted to add that someone else had looked after her even
better--someone distinctly more interesting than dear old Lady
Chatterton, kindest soul alive though she might be. For some reason or
other Nan felt reluctant to share with Penelope--or with anyone else just
at present--the fact of her meeting with Peter Mallory.

"You caught your train all right at Paddington?" went on Penelope.

Nan's mouth tilted in a faint smile.

"Quite all right," she responded placidly.

Finding that the question and answer process was not getting them very
far, Penelope resumed her darning and announced her own small item of
news.

"Kit's been here this afternoon," she said.

Nan shrugged her shoulders.

"Just my luck to miss her," she muttered irritably.

"No, it isn't 'just your luck,' my dear. It's anyone's luck. You make
such a grievance of trifles."

In an instant Nan's charming smile flashed out.

"I _am_ a _beast_," she said in a tone of acquiescence. "What on earth
should I do without you, Penny, to bully me and generally lick me into
shape?" She dropped a light kiss on the top of Penelope's bent head.
"But, truly, I hate to miss Kit Seymour. She's as good as a tonic--and
just now I feel like a bottle of champagne that's been uncorked for a
week."

"You're overtired," replied Penelope prosaically. "You're so--so
_excessive_ in all you do."

Nan laughed.

"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," she
acknowledged. "Well, what's the Kitten's news? What colour is her hair
this season?"

"Red. It suits her remarkably well."

Nan rippled with mirth.

"I never knew a painted Jezebel so perfectly delightful as Kitty. Even
Aunt Eliza can't resist her."

Mrs. McBain, generally known to her intimates as "Aunt Eliza," was a
connection of Nan's on the paternal side. She was a lady of Scottish
antecedents and Early Victorian tendencies, to whom the modern woman and
her methods were altogether anathema. She regarded her niece as
walking--or, more truly, pirouetting aggressively--along the road which
leads to destruction.

Penelope folded a pair of renovated stockings and tossed them into her
work-basket.

"The Seymours want us to dine there on Thursday. I suppose you can?" she
asked.

"With all the pleasure in life. Their chef is a dream," murmured Nan
reminiscently.

"As though you cared!" scoffed Penelope.

Nan lit a cigarette and seated herself on the humpty-dumpty cushio