“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 Good Samaritan might have counted,” suggested Nan, smiling.  “Unless you can recall any particularly good action which you’ve performed in the interval.”

“I don’t think I’ve been guilty of a solitary one,” he replied seriously.  “May I?” He offered his arm as the guests began trooping in to dinner—­Penelope appropriately paired off with Fenton, whom she had come to know fairly well in the course of her professional work.  Although, as she was wont to remark, “Ralph Fenton’s a big fish and I’m only a little one.”  They were chattering happily together of songs and singers.

“So France has a partial claim, on you, too?” remarked Mallory, unfolding his napkin.