Penelope nodded sombrely.

“I know.  I’ve been pitching into her for it.  The Peace has upset her.”

“She’s like every other girl.  She can’t settle down after four years of perpetual thrills and excitement.  But if she’d had a husband fighting”—­Kitty’s gay little face softened incredibly—­“she’d be thanking God on her knees that the war is over—­however beastly,” she added characteristically, “the peace may be.”

“She worked splendidly during the war,” interposed Penelope, her sense of justice impelling the remark.

“Yes”—­quickly.  “But she’s done precious little work of any kind since.  What’s she been doing lately?  Has she written anything new?”

Penelope laughed grimly.

“Oh, a song or two.  And she’s composed one gruesome thing which makes your blood run cold.  It’s really for orchestra, and I believe it’s meant to represent the murder of a soul. . . .  It does!”

“She’s rather inclined to err on the side of tragedy,” observed Kitty.

“Especially just now,” added Penelope pointedly.

Kitty glanced sharply across at her.

“What do you mean?  Is anything wrong with Nan?”

“Yes, there’s something very wrong.  I’m worried about her.”

“Well, what is it?”—­impatiently.

“It’s all the fault of that wretched artist man we met at your house.”

“Do you mean Maryon Rooke?”

“Yes”—­briefly.  “He’s rather smashed Nan up.”

“He? Nan?” Kitty’s voice rose in a crescendo of incredulity.  “But he was crazy about her!  Has been, all through the war.  Why, I thought there was practically an understanding between them!”

“Yes.  So did most people,” replied Penelope shortly.

“For goodness’ sake be more explicit, Penny!  Surely she hasn’t turned him down?”

“He hasn’t given her the chance.”

“You mean—­you can’t mean that he’s chucked her?”

“That’s practically what it amounts to.  And I don’t understand it.  Nan is so essentially attractive from a man’s point of view.”

“How do you know?” queried Kitty whimsically.  “You’re only a woman.”

“Why, because I’ve used my eyes, my dear! . . .  But in this case it seems we were all mistaken.  If ever a man deliberately set himself to make a woman care, Maryon Rooke was the man.  And when he’d succeeded—­he went away.”

Kitty produced a small gold cigarette case from the depths of an elaborate bead bag and extracted a cigarette.  She lit it and began smoking reflectively.

“And I suppose all this, coming on top of the staleness of things in general after the war, has flattened her out?”

“It’s given her a bad knock.”

“Did she tell you anything about it?”

“A little.  He came here to say good-bye to her before going to France—­”

“I know,” interpolated Kitty.  “He’s going there to paint Princess Somebody-or-other while she’s staying in Paris.”