"I don't think we have managed too well," admitted Penelope drily.
"There! What did I say?"—with manifest delight. "I told Barry, when he would go up to Scotland just for the pleasure of killing small birds, that I was sure something would happen in my absence. What is it? Nothing very serious, of course. By the way, where's Nan this morning?"
"Playing at a concert in Exeter. At least, the concert took place last night. I'm expecting her back this afternoon."
"Well, that's good news, not bad. How did you induce her to do it?
She's been slacking abominably lately."
Penelope nodded sombrely.
"I know. I've been pitching into her for it. The Peace has upset her."
"She's like every other girl. She can't settle down after four years of perpetual thrills and excitement. But if she'd had a husband fighting"—Kitty's gay little face softened incredibly—"she'd be thanking God on her knees that the war is over—however beastly," she added characteristically, "the peace may be."
"She worked splendidly during the war," interposed Penelope, her sense of justice impelling the remark.
"Yes"—quickly. "But she's done precious little work of any kind since.
What's she been doing lately? Has she written anything new?"
Penelope laughed grimly.