nothing to offer her except a love that must always be forbidden,
unconsummated. In God's Name, then, if Maryon Rooke could give her
happiness, what right had he to stand in the way?

By the time the taxi had brought him to the door of Kitty's house, his
decision was taken. He would clear out--see as little of Nan as
possible. It was the best thing he could do for her, and the
consideration of what it would cost him he relegated to a later period.

His steps lagged somewhat as he followed the manservant upstairs to
Kitty's own particular den, and the slight limp which the war had left
him seemed rather more marked than usual. Any great physical or
nervous strain, invariably produced this effect. But he mustered up a
smile as he entered the room and held out the recovered fan.

The "little milliner" was nowhere to be seen, and Kitty herself was
ensconced on the Chesterfield, enjoying an iced lemon-squash and a
cigarette, while Penelope and Barry were downstairs playing a desultory
game of billiards. The irregular click of the ivory balls came faintly
to Mallory's ears.

"Got my fan, Peter? Heaps of thanks. What will you have? A
whisky-and-soda? . . . Why--Peter--"

She broke on abruptly as she caught sight of his face. He was rather
pale and his eyes had a tired, beaten look in them.

"What's wrong, Peter?"

He smiled down at her as she lay tucked up amongst her cushions.