Naturally of an observant turn of mind, she had learned to penetrate the veil that hangs behind the actions of humanity, into the secret, temperamental places whence those actions emanate, and had achieved a somewhat rare comprehension and tolerance of her fellows.

From her father, who had been for thirty years the arbiter of affairs both great and small in a country parish and had yet succeeded in retaining the undivided affection of his flock, she had inherited a spice of humorous philosophy, and this, combined with a very practical sense of justice, enabled her to accept human nature as she found it—­without contempt, without censoriousness, and sometimes with a breathless admiration for its unexpectedly heroic qualities.

She it was who alone had some slight understanding of Nan Davenant’s complexities—­complexities of temperament which both baffled the unfortunate possessor of them and hopelessly misled the world at large.

The Davenant history showed a line of men and women gifted beyond the average, the artistic bias paramount, and the interpolation of a Frenchwoman four generations ago, in the person of Nan’s great-grandmother, had only added to the temperamental burden of the race.  She had been a strange, brilliant creature, with about her that mysterious touch of genius which by its destined suffering buys forgiveness for its destined sins.

And in Nan the soul of her French ancestress lived anew.  The charm of the frail and fair Angele de Varincourt—­baffling, elusive, but irresistible—­was hers, and the soul of the artist, with its restless imagination, its craving for the beautiful, its sensitive response to all emotion—­this, too, was her inheritance.

To Penelope, Nan’s ultimate unfolding was a matter of absorbing interest.  Her own small triumphs as a singer paled into insignificance beside the riot of her visions for Nan’s future.  Nevertheless, she was sometimes conscious of an undercurrent of foreboding.  Something was lacking.  Had the gods, giving so much, withheld the two best gifts of all—­Success and Happiness?

While Penelope mused in the firelight, the clatter of china issuing from the kitchen premises indicated unusual domestic activity on Nan’s part, and finally culminated in her entry into the sitting-room, bearing a laden tea-tray.

“Hot scones!” she announced joyfully.  “I’ve made a burnt offering of myself, toasting them.”

Penelope smiled.

“What an infant you are, Nan,” she returned.  “I sometimes wonder if you’ll ever grow up?”

“I hope not”—­with great promptitude.  “I detest extremely grown-up people.  But what are you brooding over so darkly?  Cease those philosophical reflections in which you’ve been indulging—­it’s a positive vice with you, Penny—­and give me some tea.”

Penelope laughed and began to pour out tea.

“I half thought Maryon Rooke might be here by now,” remarked Nan, selecting a scone from the golden-brown pyramid on the plate and carefully avoiding Penelope’s eyes.  “He said he might look in some time this afternoon.”