"Uncle," she began. "I can't thank you--"

"Don't, my dear. I merely want to give you a little freedom. You mayn't
have it always. You won't if you marry"--with a twinkle. "Now, may I
have my usual cup of coffee--_not_ from the hands of your Hebe!"

She nodded and slipped out of the room to make the coffee, while Penelope
turned towards the visitor with an expression of dismay on her face.

"Do forgive me, Lord St. John," she said. "But is it wise? Aren't you
taking from her all incentive to work?"

"I don't believe in pot-boiling," he replied promptly. "The best work of
a talent like Nan's is not the work that's done to buy the dinner."

He lit another cigarette before he spoke again. Then he went on rather
wistfully:

"I may be wrong, Penelope. But remember, my wife was a Davenant, nearer
than Nan by one generation to Angèle de Varincourt. And she was never
happy! Though I loved her, I couldn't make her happy."

"I should have thought you would have made her happy if any man could,"
said Penelope gently.

"My dear, it's given to very few men to make a woman of temperament
happy. And Nan is so like my dear, dead Annabel that, if for no other
reason, I should always wish to give her what happiness I can." He
paused, then went on thoughtfully: "Unfortunately money won't buy
happiness. I can't do very much for her--only give her what money can