husband, much as one endeavours to frown down
the observations of an _enfant terrible_.

"Don't be such an idiot, Ralph," she said severely.

He grinned delightedly.

"Old fires die hard, Penny. Do you think it is quite right of us to
introduce Nan on the scene again? She's forbidden fruit now, remember."

"And doubtless Maryon _will_ remember it," retorted Penelope tartly.

"I think," pursued Fenton, "it's not unlike inserting a match into a
powder barrel. Rooke"--reflectively--"always reminds me somewhat of a
powder barrel. And Nan is by no means a safety match--warranted to
produce a light from the legitimate box and none other!"

"I wish," observed Nan plaintively, "that you wouldn't discuss me just
as if I weren't here."

They all laughed, and then, as the car slowed down to a standstill at
Maryon's door, the conversation came to an end.

Rooke had established himself in one of the big and comparatively
inexpensive houses in Westminster, in that pleasant, quiet backwater
which lies within the shadow of the beautiful old Abbey, away from the
noisy stream of general traffic. The house had formerly been the
property of another artist who had built on to it a large and
well-equipped studio, so that Rooke had been singularly fortunate in
his purchase.

Nan looked about her with interest as the door swung open, admitting
them into a fair-sized hall. The thick Eastern carpet, the dim,
blue-grey hangings on the walls, the quaint brazen lamps--hushing the
modern note of electric light behind their thick glass panes--spoke
eloquently of Maryon. A faint fragrance of cedar tinged the atmosphere.

The parlourmaid--unmistakably a twentieth-century product--conducted
them into a beautiful Old English room, its walls panelled in dark oak,
while heavy oaken beams traversed the ceiling. Logs burned merrily on
the big open hearth, throwing up showers of golden sparks. Above the
chimneypiece there was a wonderful old plaster coat-of-arms, dating
back to the seventeenth century, and the watery gleams of sunshine,
filtering in through the diamond panes of latticed windows, fell
lingeringly on the waxen surface of an ancient dresser. On the dresser
shelves were lodged some willow-pattern plates, their clear, tender
blue bearing witness to an early period.

"How like Maryon it all is!" whispered Nan.

And just then Rooke himself came into the room. He had altered very
little. It was the same supple, loose-limbed