“And who’s the poor devil you’ve fixed on as a burnt-offering?” enquired Seymour, tugging reflectively at his big, fair moustache.

“It certainly is a man,” conceded Kitty.

“Naturally,” agreed her husband amicably.

“But I’m not going to tell you who it is or I know you’d let the cat out of the bag, and then Nan will be put off at the beginning.  Men”—­superbly—­“never can keep a secret.”

“But they can use their native observation, my dear,” retorted Barry calmly.  “And I bet you five to one in gloves that I tell you the name of the man inside a week.”

“In a week it won’t matter,” pronounced Kitty oracularly.  “Give me a week—­and you can have all the time that’s left.”

“Well, we’d better occupy what’s left of this afternoon in getting back home, old thing,” returned her husband.  “Or you’ll never be dressed in time for the Granleys’ dinner to-night.”

Kitty looked at the clock and jumped up quickly.

“Good heavens!  I’d forgotten all about them!  Penelope, I must fly!  Thursday, then—­don’t forget.  Dinner at eight.”

She caught up her furs.  There was a faint rustle of feminine garments, a fleeting whiff of violets in the air, and Kitty had taken her departure, followed by her husband.

A short time afterwards a taxi pulled up at Edenhall Mansions and Nan stepped out of it.  Penelope sprang up to welcome her as she entered the sitting-room.  She was darning stockings, foolish, pretty, silken things—­Nan’s, be it said.

“Well, how did it go?” she asked eagerly.

“The concert?  Oh, quite well.  I had a very good reception, and this morning’s notices in the newspapers were positively calculated to make me blush.”

There was an odd note of indifference in her voice; the concert did not appear to interest her much.  Penelope pursued her interrogation.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

A curious look of reminiscence came into Nan’s eyes.

“Oh, yes.  I enjoyed myself.  Very much.”

“I’m so glad.  I thought the Chattertons would look after you well.”

“They did.”

She omitted to add that someone else had looked after her even better—­someone distinctly more interesting than dear old Lady Chatterton, kindest soul alive though she might be.  For some reason or other Nan felt reluctant to share with Penelope—­or with anyone else just at present—­the fact of her meeting with Peter Mallory.

“You caught your train all right at Paddington?” went on Penelope.

Nan’s mouth tilted in a faint smile.

“Quite all right,” she responded placidly.

Finding that the question and answer process was not getting them very far, Penelope resumed her darning and announced her own small item of news.

“Kit’s been here this afternoon,” she said.

Nan shrugged her shoulders.

“Just my luck to miss her,” she muttered irritably.