Nan scrambled up from the hearthrug obediently and disappeared into the
kitchen regions, while Penelope, curling herself up on a cushion in front
of the fire, sat musing.

For nearly six years now she and Nan had shared the flat they were living
in. When they had first joined forces, Nan had been at the beginning of
her career as a pianist and was still studying, while Penelope, her
senior by five years, had already been before the public as a singer for
some considerable time. With the outbreak of the war, they had both
thrown themselves heartily into war work of various kinds, reserving only
a certain portion of their time for professional purposes. The double
work had proved a considerable strain on each of them, and now that the
war was past it seemed as though Nan, at least, were incapable of getting
a fresh grip on things.

Luckily--or, from some points of view, unluckily--she was the recipient
of an allowance of three hundred a year from a wealthy and benevolent
uncle. Without this, the two girls might have found it difficult to
weather the profitless intervals which punctuated their professional
engagements. But with this addition to their income they rubbed along
pretty well, and contrived to find a fair amount of amusement in life
through the medium of their many friends in London.

Penelope, the elder of the two by five years, was the daughter of a
country rector, long since dead. She had known the significance of the
words "small means" all her life, and managed the financial affairs of
the little ménage in Edenhall Mansions with creditable success. Whereas
Nan Davenant, flung at her parents' death from the shelter of a home
where wealth and reckless expenditure had prevailed, knew less than