“You’re rather limiting his horizon,” she observed.

Kitty laughed.

“Possibly.  But I’m furious with him for hashing up Nan’s life. . . .  As he has done,” she added.

“Not necessarily,” suggested Penelope.  “I think Nan’s rather like a little hard, unopened bud.  He’s bruised the bud, perhaps, but I don’t think he’s injured the flower.”

“Good gracious, Penny, you’re not trying to find excuses for the man!”

“Not a bit of it.  But I believe that Nan has such a tremendous fascination for him that he simply can’t resist her.  In fact, I think if the question of finance didn’t enter into the matter he’d be ready to shoulder the matrimonial yoke. . .  But I don’t see Maryon Rooke settling down to matrimony on a limited income!  And of course Nan’s own income ceases if she marries.”

“It was very queer of Lord St. John to make that stipulation,” commented Kitty.

“I don’t think so at all.  He wants to make quite sure that the man who marries Nan does so for love—­and nothing else.  And also to give her a free hand.  How many women, if they had money of their own, as Nan has, would marry, do you suppose?” Penelope spoke heatedly.  She was a modern of the moderns in her ideas.  “Subconsciously it’s the feeling of economical dependence, the dread of ultimate poverty, which has driven half the untrained women one knows into unhappy marriages.  And Lord St. John recognises it.  He’s progressed with the times, bless him!”

“But Rooke will be making big money before very long,” protested Kitty, keeping firmly to the point and declining to be led aside into one of Penelope’s argumentative byeways.  “He’ll be able to settle a decent income on his wife in a few years.”

“Very possibly.  He’ll be one of the most fashionable portrait painters of the day.  But until that day comes, Maryon isn’t going to tie himself up with a woman whose income ceases when she marries.  Besides”—­drily—­“an unattached bachelor is considerably more in demand as a painter of society women’s portraits than a Benedict.”

“So Nan is to be sacrificed?” threw out Kitty.

“It seems like it.  And as long as Maryon Rooke occupies the foreground in her mind, no other man will occur to her as anything but a friend.”

“Then I wish somebody—­or something—­would sweep him out of her mind!”

“Well, he’s away now, at any rate,” said Penelope soothingly.  “So let’s be thankful for small mercies.”

As she spoke, the maid—­an improvement on their original “Adagio”—­entered with a telegram on a salver which she offered to Penelope.  The latter slit open the envelope without glancing at the address and uttered a sharp exclamation of dismay as she read the brief communication it contained.

Kitty leaned forward.

“What is it, Penny?  Not bad news?”

“It’s for Nan,” returned Penelope shortly.  “You can read it.”