she longed to see the beloved familiar faces--to
see Penelope and Ralph and Lord St. John. She felt as though for the
last three months she had been dwelling in some dreadful unknown world,
with only boy Sandy to cling to out of the whole unnerving chaos.

* * * * * *

"You blessed child! I _am_ glad to see you!"

Penelope, looking the happiest and most blooming of youthful matrons,
was on the platform when the Cornish express steamed into Waterloo
station and Nan alighted from it. The two girls embraced warmly.

"You can't--you can't possibly be as glad as I am, Penny mine,"
returned Nan. "Hmf!"--wrinkling up her nose. "_How_ nice London
smells!"

Penelope burst out laughing. Nan nodded at her seriously.

"I mean it. You've no idea how good that smoky, petrolly smell is
after the innocuous breezes of the country. It's full of gorgeous
suggestions of cars and people and theatres and--and life!"

They hurried to the other end of the platform where the porters were
disinterring the luggage from the van and dumping it down on the
platform with a splendid disregard for the longevity of the various
trunks and suit-cases they handled. Nan's attendant porter quickly
extricated her baggage from the motley pile, and very soon she and
Penelope were speeding away from the station as fast as their
chauffeur--whose apparent recklessness was fortunately counter-balanced
by consummate skill--could take them.

"How nice and familiar it all looks," said Nan, as the car granted up
the Haymarket. "And it's heavenly to be going back to the dear old
flat. Whereabouts are you looking for a house, by the way?"

"Somewhere in Hampstead, we think, where the air--and the rents!--are
more salubrious than nearer in."

"Of course." Nan nodded. "All singers live at Hampstead. You'd be
quite unfashionable if you didn't. I suppose you and Ralph are
frightfully busy?"

"Yes. But we're free to-night, luckily. So we can yarn to our hearts'
content. To-morrow evening we're both singing at the Albert Hall.
And, oh, in the afternoon we're going to tea at Maryon's studio. His
new picture's on view--private, of course."

"What new picture?"

"His portrait of the famous American beauty, Mrs. T. Van Decken. I
believe she paid a fabulous sum for it; Maryon's all the rage now, you
know. So he asked us to come down and see it before it's shipped off
to New York. By the way, he enquired after you