Meanwhile Ralph, being “a big fish” as Penny had once commented, had secured his future wife’s engagement as a member of the concert party—­by the simple method of declining to accept the American tour himself unless she were included, so that to the joy of buying a trousseau was added the superlative delight of choosing special frocks for Penelope’s appearances on tour in the States.  Lord St. John had insisted upon presenting the trousseau, Barry Seymour made himself responsible for the concert gowns, and Kitty announced that the wedding was to take place from her house in Green Street.

For the first time in the whole of her brave, hard-working life, Penelope knew what it was to spend as she had seen other women spend, without being driven into choosing the second-best material or the less becoming frock for the unsatisfying reason that it was the cheaper.  The two men had given Kitty carte blanche as regards expenditure and she proceeded to take full advantage of the fact, promptly quelling any tentative suggestions towards economy which Penelope, rather overwhelmed by Mrs. Seymour’s lavish notions, occasionally put forth.

The date on which the concert party sailed was already fixed; leaving a bare month in which to accomplish the necessary preparations, and the time seemed positively to fly.  Nan evaded taking part in the shopping expeditions which filled the days for Penelope and Kitty, since each new purchase, each frail, chiffony frock or beribboned box which arrived from dressmaker or milliner, served only to remind her that the approaching parting with Penelope was drawing nearer.

In women’s friendships there must always come a big wrench when one or other of two friends meets the man who is her mate.  The old, tried friendship retreats suddenly into second place—­sometimes for a little while it almost seems as though it had petered out altogether.  But when once the plunge has 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.