e equals that of any Frenchwoman."

"A reversion to type. Don't forget that Angele de Varincourt is always
at the back of me."

St. John laughed and drank his coffee appreciatively, and after a little
further desultory conversation took his departure, leaving the two girls
alone together.

"Isn't he a perfect old dear?" said Nan.

"Yes," agreed Penelope. "He is. And he absolutely spoils you."

Nan gave a little grin.

"I really think he does--a bit. Imagine it, Penny, after our strenuous
economies! Six hundred a year in addition to our hard-earned pence!
Within limits it really does mean pretty frocks, and theatres, and taxis
when we want them."

Penelope smiled at her riotous satisfaction. Nan lived tremendously in
the present--her capacity for enjoyment and for suffering was so intense
that every little pleasure magnified itself and each small fret and jar
became a minor tragedy.

But Penelope was acutely conscious that beneath all the surface tears and
laughter there lay a hurt which had not healed, the ultimate effect and
consequence of which she was afraid to contemplate.

CHAPTER IV

THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

"Nan, may I introduce Mr. Mallory?"

It was the evening of Kitty's little dinner--a cosy gathering of
sympathetic souls, the majority of whom were more or less intimately
known to each other.

"As you both have French blood in your veins, you can chant the
Marseillaise in unison." And with a nod and smile Kitty passed on to
where her husband was chatting with Ralph Fenton, the well-known
baritone, and a couple of members of Parliament. Each of them had cut
a niche of his own in the world, for Kitty was discriminating in her
taste, and the receptions at her house in Green Street were always duly
seasoned with the spice of brains and talent.

As Nan looked up into the face of the man whose acquaintance she had
already made in such curious fashion, the thought flashed through her
mind that here, in his partly French blood was the explanation of his
unusual colouring--black brows and lashes contrasting so oddly with the
kinky fair hair which, despite the barber's periodical shearing and the
fervent use of a stiff-bristled hair-brush, still insisted on springing
into crisp waves over his head and refused to lie flat.

"What luck!" he exclaimed boyishly. "I must be in the Fates' good
books to-night. What virtuous deed can I have done to deserve it?"

"Playing the part of Goo