He had none of the average Englishman's _mauvaise honte_--though be it
thankfully acknowledged that, in the case of the younger generation,
the experiences of the war have largely contributed towards rubbing it
off. Mallory appeared serenely unconscious of any incongruity in the
fact of a man whose clothes breathed Savile Row and whose linen was
immaculate as only that of the Londoner--determinedly emergent from the
grime of the city--ever is, pottering about in the tiny kitchen, and
brooding over the blackly obstinate kettle.

This first visit was soon followed by others, and then by a foursome
dinner at the Carlton, Ralph Fenton being invited to complete the
party. Before long Peter was on a pleasant footing of intimacy with
the two girls at the flat, though beyond this he did not seek to
progress.

The explanation was simple enough. Primarily he was always aware of
the cord which shackled him to a restless, butterfly woman who played
at life out in India, and secondly, although he was undoubtedly
attracted by Nan, he was not the type of man to fall headlong in love.
He was too fastidious, too critical, altogether too much master of
himself. Few women caused him a single quickened heart-beat. But it
is to such men as this that when at last love grips them, binding them
slowly and secretly with its clinging tendrils, it comes as an
irresistible force to be reckoned with throughout the remainder of
their lives.

So it came about that as the weeks grew into months, Mallory
perceived--dimly and with a quaint resignation to the inevitable--that
Nan and Love were coming to him hand in hand.