“Somewhere in Hampstead, we think, where the air—­and the rents!—­are more salubrious than nearer in.”

“Of course.”  Nan nodded.  “All singers live at Hampstead.  You’d be quite unfashionable if you didn’t.  I suppose you and Ralph are frightfully busy?”

“Yes.  But we’re free to-night, luckily.  So we can yarn to our hearts’ content.  To-morrow evening we’re both singing at the Albert Hall.  And, oh, in the afternoon we’re going to tea at Maryon’s studio.  His new picture’s on view—­private, of course.”

“What new picture?”

“His portrait of the famous American beauty, Mrs. T. Van Decken.  I believe she paid a fabulous sum for it; Maryon’s all the rage now, you know.  So he asked us to come down and see it before it’s shipped off to New York.  By the way, he enquired after you in his letter—­I’ve got it with me somewhere.  Oh, yes, here it is!  He says:  ’What news have you of Nan?  I’ve lost sight of her since her engagement.  But now it seems likely I shall be seeing her again before any of you.’  I can’t think what he means by that.”

“Nor I,” said Nan, somewhat mystified.  “But anyway,” she added, smiling, “he will be seeing me even sooner than he anticipates.  How has his marriage turned out?”

Penelope laughed.

“Very much as one might have expected.  They live most amicably—­apart!”

“They’ve surely not quarrelled already?”

“Oh, no, they’ve not quarrelled.  But of course they didn’t fit into each other’s scheme of life one bit, and they’ve re-arranged matters to suit their own convenience.  She’s in the south of France just now, and when she comes to town they’ll meet quite happily and visit at each other’s houses.  She has a palatial sort of place in Mayfair, you know, while Maryon has a duck of a house in Westminster.”

“How very modern!” commented Nan, smiling.  “And—­how like Maryon!”

“Just like him, isn’t it?  And”—­drily—­“it was just like him, too, to see that the marriage settlement arrangements were all quite water-tight.  However, on the whole, it’s a fair bargain between them.  She rejoices in the honour and glory of being a well-known artist’s wife, while he has rather more money than is good for him.”

Ralph, broadened out a bit since his successful trip to America, was on the steps of the Mansions to welcome them, and the lift conveyed them all three up to the flat—­the dear, home-like flat of which Nan felt she loved every inch.

“You’re in your old room,” Penelope told her, and Nan gave vent to a crow of delight.

Dinner was a delightful meal, full of the familiar gossip of the artistes’ room, and the news of old friends, and fervent discussions on matters musical and artistic, with running through it all a ripple of humour and the cheery atmosphere of camaraderie and good-fellowship.  When it was over, the three drew cosily together round the fire in Ralph’s den.  Nan sank into her chair with a blissful sigh.