"Oh, is he a gay Lothario sort of person?" she asked coldly. "He
didn't strike me in that light."

"No. He's not in the least like that. He's an ideal husband wasted."

Nan's eyes twinkled.

"Don't poach on preserved ground, Kitty. Marriages are made in heaven."

As she spoke the door opened to admit the men, and somebody claiming
Kitty's attention at the moment she turned away without reply. For a
few minutes the conversation became more general until, after a brief
hum and stir, congenial spirits sought and found each other and settled
down into little groups of twos and threes. Somewhat to Nan's
surprise--and, although she would not have acknowledged it, to her
annoyance--Peter Mallory ensconced himself next to Penelope, and Ralph
Fenton, the singer, thus driven from the haven where he would be, came
to anchor beside Nan.

"I've not seen you for a long time, Miss Davenant. How's the world
been treating you?"

"Rather better than usual," she replied gaily. "More ha'pence than
kicks for once in a way."

"You're booking up pretty deep for the winter, then, I suppose?"

Nan winced at the professional jargon. There was certain aspects of a
musician's life which repelled her, more particularly the commercial
side of it.