“I’ve had hints, Nan—­Nature’s wireless.  So I saw Jermyn Carter a few weeks back—­”

“What did he say?” She interrupted swiftly.

“That at my age a man mustn’t expect his heart to be the same as in his twenties.”

A silence fell between them.  Then Nan’s hand stole out and clasped his.  She had never imagined a world without this good comrade in it.  The bare thought of it brought a choking lump into her throat, robbing her of words.  Presently St. John spoke again.

“I’ve nothing to grizzle about.  I’ve known love and I’ve known friendship—­the two biggest things in life.  And, after all, since . . . since she went, I’ve only been waiting.  The world, without her, has never been quite the same.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“You Davenant women,” he went on more lightly, “are never loved and forgotten.”

“And we don’t love—­and forget,” said Nan in a low voice.

St. John looked at her with eyes that held a very tender comprehension.

“Tell me, Nan, was it—­Peter Mallory?”

She met his glance bravely for a moment.

“Yes,” she answered at last, very quietly.  “It was Peter.”  With a sudden shudder she bent forward and covered her face with her hands.  “And I can’t forget,” she said hoarsely.

A long, heavy silence fell between them.

“Then why—­” began Lord St. John.

Nan lifted her head.

“Why did I promise Roger?” she broke in.  “Because it seemed the only way.  I—­I was afraid!  And then there was Penelope—­and Ralph. . . .  Oh, it was a ghastly mistake.  I know now.  But—­but there’s Roger . . . he cares . . .”

“Yes.  There’s Roger,” he said gravely.  “And you’ve given him your word.  You can’t draw back now.”  There was a note of sternness in the old man’s voice—­the sternness of a man who has a high creed of honour and who has always lived up to it, no matter what it cost.

“Remember, Nan, no Davenant was ever a coward in the face of difficulties.  They always pulled through somehow.”

“Or ran away—­like Angele de Varincourt.”

“She only ran from one difficulty into the arms of a hundred others.  No wrong can be righted by another wrong.”

“Can any wrong ever be really righted?” she demanded bitterly.

“We have to pay for our mistakes—­each in our turn.”  He himself had paid to the uttermost farthing.  “Is it a very heavy price, Nan?”

She turned her face away a little.

“It will be . . . higher than I expected,” she acknowledged slowly.

“Well, then, pay up.  Don’t make—­Roger—­pay for your blunder.  You have other things—­your music, for instance.  Many people have to go through life with only their work for company. . . .  Whereas you are Roger’s whole world.”

With the New Year Lord St. John returned to town.  Nan missed him every minute of the day, but she had drawn new strength and steadfastness from his kindly counsels.  He understood both the big tragedies of life—­which often hold some brief, perfect memory to make them bearable—­and those incessant, gnat-like irritations which uncongenial fellowship involves.