Penelope frowned at her 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.