"Yes"--quickly. "But she's done precious little work of any kind since.
What's she been doing lately? Has she written anything new?"

Penelope laughed grimly.

"Oh, a song or two. And she's composed one gruesome thing which makes
your blood run cold. It's really for orchestra, and I believe it's meant
to represent the murder of a soul. . . . It does!"

"She's rather inclined to err on the side of tragedy," observed Kitty.

"Especially just now," added Penelope pointedly.

Kitty glanced sharply across at her.

"What do you mean? Is anything wrong with Nan?"

"Yes, there's something very wrong. I'm worried about her."

"Well, what is it?"--impatiently.

"It's all the fault of that wretched artist man we met at your house."

"Do you mean Maryon Rooke?"

"Yes"--briefly. "He's rather smashed Nan up."

"_He_? _Nan_?" Kitty's voice rose in a crescendo of incredulity. "But
he was crazy about her! Has been, all through the war. Why, I thought