t, but to be proud of the name.

To her friends and intimates she was always Tan, to the less intimate
Lady Tan, and to the world at large Lady Tanagra Bowen.

She had once found the name extremely useful, when in process of being
proposed to by an undesirable of the name of Black.

"It's no good," she had said, "I could never marry you, no matter what
the state of my feelings. Think how ridiculous we should both be,
everybody would call us Black and Tan. Ugh! it sounds like a whisky as
well as a dog." Whereat Mr. Black had laughed and they remained
friends, which was a great tribute to Lady Tanagra.

Exquisitely pretty, sympathetic, witty, human! Lady Tanagra Bowen was
a favourite wherever she went. She seemed incapable of making enemies
even amongst her own sex. Her taste in dress was as unerring as in
literature and art. Everything she did or said was without effort.
She had been proposed to by "half the eligibles and all the ineligibles
in London," as Bowen phrased it; but she declared she would never marry
until Peter married, and had thus got somebody else to mother him.

At a quarter-past one when Bowen left the War Office, he found Lady
Tanagra waiting in her car outside.

"Hullo, Tan!" he cried, "what a brainy idea, picking up the poor, tired
warrior."

"It'll save you a taxi, Peter. I'll tell you what to do with the
shilling as we go along."

Lady Tanagra smiled up into her brother's face. She was always happy
with Peter.

As she swung the car across Whitehall to get into the north-bound
stream of traffic, Bowen looked down at his sister. She handled her
big car with dexterity and ease. She was a dainty creature with
regular features, violet-blue eyes and golden hair that seemed to defy
all constraint. There was a tilt about her chin that showed
determination, and that about her eyebrows which suggested something
more than good judgment.

"I hope you weren't doing anything to-day, Tan," said Bowen as they
came to a standstill at the top of Whitehall, waiting for the removal
of a blue arm that barred their progress.

"I was lunching with the Bolsovers; but I'm not well enough, I'm
afraid, to see them. It's measles, you know."

"Good heavens, Tan! what do you mean?"

"Well, I had to say something that would be regarded as a sufficient
excuse for breaking a luncheon engagement of three weeks' standing.
Quite a lot of people were invited to meet me."

"I'm awfully sorry," began Bowen