all the names he called me. Nan, how do you
manage to make everyone so amazingly devoted to you? I think it must
be that ridiculously short upper lip of yours, or your 'blue-violet'
eyes, or some other of your absurd and charming characteristics.

"I shall probably go abroad for a bit--to recover my self-respect. I'm
not feeling particularly proud of myself just now, and it always spoils
my enjoyment of things if I can't be genuinely pleased with my ego.
Don't cut me when next we meet, if fortune is ever kind enough to me to
let us meet again. Because, for once in my life, I'm really sorry for
my sins.

"I believe that somewhere in the ramshackle thing I call my soul, I'm
glad Sandy took you away from me. Though there are occasional moments
when I feel murderous towards him.

"Yours

"MARYON."

Nan laid down the closely-written sheet with a half-smile,
half-sigh--could one ever regard Maryon Rooke without a smile overtaken
by a sigh? The letter somewhat cheered her, washing away what remained
of bitterness in her thoughts towards him. It was very characteristic
of the man, with its intense egotism--almost every sentence beginning
with an "I"--and its lightly cynical note. Yet beneath the surface
flippancy Nan could read a genuine remorse and self-reproach. And in
some strange way it comforted her a little to know that Maryon was
sorry. After all, there is something good even in the worst of us.

"Had a nice letter, Nan?" asked Barry, looking up from his own
correspondence. "You're wearing a smile of sorts."

"Yes. It was--rather a nice letter. Good and bad mixed, I think," she
answered.

"Then you're lucky," observed Kitty. There was a rather frightened
look in her eyes. "We'll go into your study after breakfast, Barry. I
want to consult you about one of my letters. It's--it's undiluted bad,
I think."

Barry's blue eyes smiled reassuringly across at her. "All right, old
thing. Two heads are generally better than one if you're up against a
snag."

Half an hour later she beckoned him into the study.

"What's the trouble?" He slipped an arm round her shoulders. "Don't
look like that, Kitten. We're sure to be able to put things right
somehow."

She smiled at him rather ruefully.

"It's you who'll have to do the putting right, Barry--and it'll be a
hateful business, too," she replied.

"Thanks," murmured Barry. "Well, what's in the letter that's bothering
you?"

"It's from Peter