“You seem to have ordered him about pretty considerably,” remarked Nan with a faint smile.

“Oh, he was quite meek with me,” returned Kitty.  “He had to be.  I told him his only chance was to keep away from you, to manage Lady Gertrude properly, and not to worry you with letters.”

“So that’s why he hasn’t written?  I’ve wondered, sometimes.”

Nan was silent for a time.  Then she said quietly: 

“You’re a good pal, Kitten.”

Followed a still longer pause.  At last Kitty broke it reluctantly: 

“I’ve something else to tell you.”

Nan glanced up quickly, detecting some special significance in her tones.

“What is it?” she asked.

Kitty made a gesture to her husband that he should leave them alone.  When he had gone: 

“It’s about Peter,” she said, then paused unhappily.

“Yes.  Go on.  Peter and I are only friends now.  We’ve—­we’ve worked up quite a presentable sort of friendship since my illness, you know.  What is there to tell me?”

“You know that Celia, his wife, has been out in India for some years.  Well—­”

Nan’s frail body stiffened suddenly.

“She’s coming home?” she said swiftly.

Kitty nodded.

“Yes.  She’s been very ill with sunstroke.  And she’s ordered home as soon as she is able to travel.”

Nan made no answer for a moment.  Then she said almost under her breath: 

“Poor Peter!”

It was late in the afternoon when Peter came to pay his usual daily visit.  Kitty brought him into the room and vanished hastily, leaving the two alone together.

“You know?” he said quietly.

Nan bent her head.

“Yes, I know,” she answered.  “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry!” Adding, after a pause:  “Must you have her with you?”

“I must, dear.”

“You’d be happier alone.”

“Less unhappy, perhaps.”  He corrected her gently.  “But one can’t always consider one’s own personal wishes.  I’ve a responsibility towards Celia.  She’s my wife.  And though she’s been foolish and treated life rather as though it were a game of battledore and shuttlecock, she’s never done anything to unfit herself to be my wife.  Even if she had—­well, I still shouldn’t consider I was absolved from my responsibility towards her.  Marriage is ‘for better, for worse,’ and I can’t be coward enough to shirk if it turns out ‘for worse.’  If I did, anything might happen—­anything!  Celia’s a woman of no will-power—­driven like a bit of fluff by every breeze that blows.  So you see, beloved, I must be waiting to help her when she comes back.”

Nan lifted her eyes to his face.

“I see that you’re just the best and bravest man I know—­preux chevalier, as I once called you. . . .  Oh, Peter!  She’s the luckiest woman in the world to be your wife!  And she doesn’t even know it!”