Kitty perused it in silence.

“Am in town.  Shall call this afternoon on chance of finding you in.—­ROOKE.”

“The very last person we wanted to blow in here just now,” commented Kitty as she returned the wire.

Penelope slipped it back into its envelope and replaced it on the salver.

“Take it to Miss Davenant,” she told the maid quietly.  “And explain that you brought it to me by mistake.”

CHAPTER VI

A FORGOTTEN FAN

Meanwhile, in the next room, Peter and Nan, having completed their scheme of decoration with “smilax and things,” were resting from their labours and smoking sociably together.

Nan cast a reflective eye upon the table.

“You don’t think it looks too much like a shrubbery where you have to hunt for the cakes, do you?” she suggested.

“Certainly I don’t,” replied Peter promptly.  “If there is some slight confusion occasioned by that trail of smilax round the pink sugar-icing cake it merely adds to its attractiveness.  The charm of mystery, you know!”

“I believe if Maryon were here he would sweep it all on to the floor in disgust!” observed Nan suddenly.  “He’d say we’d forfeited simplicity.”

“Maryon Rooke, the artist, you mean?”

The warm colour rushed into Nan’s face, and she glanced at Peter with startled—­almost frightened—­eyes.  She could not conceive why the sudden recollection of Rooke should have sprung into her mind at this particular moment.  With difficulty her lips framed the monosyllable “Yes.”

Peter bent forward.  They were sitting together on the wide window-seat, the sound of the traffic from below coming murmuringly to their ears like some muted diapason.

“Nan”—­Peter spoke very quietly—­“Nan—­was he the man?”

She nodded voicelessly.  Peter made a quick gesture as though to lay his hand over hers, then checked it abruptly.

“My dear,” he said, “do you still care?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she answered uncertainly.  “I—­I’m not sure.  Oh, Peter, how difficult life is!”

He assented briefly.  He knew very well how difficult.

“I can’t imagine why I thought of Maryon just now,” went on Nan, a puzzled frown wrinkling her brows.  “I never do, as a rule, when I’m with you.”

She smiled rather wistfully and with a restless movement he sprang to his feet and began pacing the room.  A little cry of dismay broke from her and she came quickly to his side, lifting a questioning face to his.

“Why, Peter—­Peter—­What have I said?  You’re not angry, are you?”

“Angry!” His voice roughened a bit.  “If I could only tell you the truth!”

“Tell it me,” she said simply.

For a moment he was silent.  Then: 

“Don’t ask me, Nan.  There are some things that can’t be told.”