"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.