Nan passed out in the wake of the other women to while away in desultory small talk that awkward after-dinner interval which splits the evening into halves and involves a picking up of the threads—­not always successfully accomplished—­when the men at last rejoin the feminine portion of the party.  And what is it, after all, but a barbarous relic of those times when a man must needs drink so much wine as to render himself unfit for the company of his womenkind?

“Well,” demanded Kitty, “how do you like my lion?”

“Mr. Mallory?  I didn’t know he was a lion,” responded Nan.

“Of course you didn’t.  You musicians never realise that the human Zoo boasts any other lions but yourselves.”

Nan laughed.

“He didn’t roar,” she said apologetically, “so how could I know?  You never told me about him.”

“Well, he’s just written what everyone says will be the book of the year—­Lindley’s Wife.  It’s made a tremendous hit.”

“I thought that was by G. A. Petersen?”

“But Peter is G. A. Petersen.  Only his intimate friends know it, though, as he detests publicity.  So go don’t give the fact away.”

“I won’t.  You’ve read this new book, I suppose?”

“Yes.  And you must.  It’s the finest study of a woman’s temperament I’ve ever come across. . . .  Goodness knows he’s had opportunity enough to study the subject!”

Nan froze a little.

“Oh, is he a gay Lothario sort of person?” she asked coldly.  “He didn’t strike me in that light.”

“No.  He’s not in the least like that.  He’s an ideal husband wasted.”

Nan’s eyes twinkled.

“Don’t poach on preserved ground, Kitty.  Marriages are made in heaven.”

As she spoke the door opened to admit the men, and somebody claiming Kitty’s attention at the moment she turned away without reply.  For a few minutes the conversation became more general until, after a brief hum and stir, congenial spirits sought and found each other and settled down into little groups of twos and threes.  Somewhat to Nan’s surprise—­and, although she would not have acknowledged it, to her annoyance—­Peter Mallory ensconced himself next to Penelope, and Ralph Fenton, the singer, thus driven from the haven where he would be, came to anchor beside Nan.

“I’ve not seen you for a long time, Miss Davenant.  How’s the world been treating you?”

“Rather better than usual,” she replied gaily.  “More ha’pence than kicks for once in a way.”

“You’re booking up pretty deep for the winter, then, I suppose?”

Nan winced at the professional jargon.  There was certain aspects of a musician’s life which repelled her, more particularly the commercial side of it.

She responded indifferently.

“No.  I haven’t booked a single further engagement.  The ha’pence are due to an avuncular relative who has a quite inexplicable penchant for an idle niece.”