“We’re frankly grateful to you for introducing him,” replied Penelope.  “He’s been an absolute godsend all through this hateful long winter.”

“What’s so perfect about him,” added Nan, “is that he never jars on one.  He’s never Philistine.”

“In fact,” interpolated Penelope somewhat ruefully, “he’s so far from being Philistine that he has a dreadful faculty for making me feel deplorably commonplace.”

Kitty gurgled.

“What rubbish!  I’m sure nothing in the world would make Peter more unhappy than to think he affected anyone like that.  He’s the least assuming and most tender-hearted soul I know.  You may be common-sense, Penny dear, but you’re not in the least commonplace.  They’re two quite different things.”

Nan lit a cigarette with deliberation.

“I’ll tell you what is remarkable about Peter Mallory,” she said.  “He’s sahib—­right through.  Very few men are.”

Kitty, always tolerant and charitable, patted her arm deprecatingly.

“Oh, come, Nan, that’s rather sweeping.  There are heaps of nice men in the world.”

“Heaps,” assented Nan agreeably.  “Heaps—­bless ’em!  But very few preux chevaliers.  I only know two—­one is my lamb of an uncle and the other is Peter.”

“And where does my poor Barry come in?”

Nan smiled across at her indulgently.

“Barry?  Pooh!  He’s just a delightful overgrown schoolboy—­and you know it!”

* * * * * *

July in London, hot, dusty, and oppressive.  Even the breezy altitude of the top-floor flat could not save its occupants from the intense heat which seemed to be wafted up from the baking streets below.  The flat was “at home” to-day, the festive occasion indicated by the quantities of flowers which adorned it—­big bowls of golden-hearted roses, tall vases of sweet peas—­the creamy-yellow ones which merge into oyster pink, while the gorgeous royal scarlet of “King Edward” glowed in dusky corners.

Penelope trailed somewhat lethargically hither and thither, adding last touches to the small green tables, arranged in readiness for bridge, and sighing at the oppressive heat of the afternoon.  First she opened the windows to let in the air, then closed them to shut out the heat, only to fling them open once again, exclaiming impatiently: 

“Phew!  I really don’t know which is the cooler!”

“Neither!” responded a gay voice from the doorway.  “The bottomless pit would probably be refreshingly draughty in comparison with town just now.”

Penelope whirled round to find Kitty, immaculate in white from head to foot and looking perfectly cool and composed, standing on the threshold.

“How do you manage it?” she said admiringly.  “Even in this sweltering heat, when the rest of us look as though we had run in the wash, you give the impression that you’ve just stepped out of a refrigerated bandbox.”