"Run along, my chicken," she said, suddenly feeling a thousand years old as she saw Penelope standing, virginal and sweet, at the threshold of the gate through which she herself had passed with happy footsteps years ago—that gate which opens to the wondering fingers of girlhood, laid so tremulously upon love's latch, and which closes behind the woman, shutting her into paradise or hell.
"Run along, my chicken. . . . And give Ralph my blessing!"
* * * * * *
It was not until the next day, towards the end of lunch, that Ralph shot his bolt from the blue. Other matters—which seemed almost too good to be true in the light of Penelope's unqualified refusal of him three days ago—had occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. Nor, to give him his due, was he in the least aware that he was administering any kind of shock, since he was quite ignorant as to the actual state of affairs betwixt Nan and Maryon Rooke.
It was Kitty herself who inadvertently touched the spring which let loose the bolt.
"What's the news in town, Ralph?" she asked. "Surely you gleaned something, even though you were only there for a single night?"
Fenton laughed.
"Would I dare to come back to you without the latest?" he returned, smiling. "The very latest is that Maryon Rooke is to be married."
A silence followed, as though a bombshell had descended in their midst and scattered the whole party to the four winds of heaven.
Then Kitty, making a desperate clutch at her self-possession, remarked rather superficially: