Kitty looked at the clock and jumped up quickly.
"Good heavens! I'd forgotten all about them! Penelope, I must fly!
Thursday, then—don't forget. Dinner at eight."
She caught up her furs. There was a faint rustle of feminine garments, a fleeting whiff of violets in the air, and Kitty had taken her departure, followed by her husband.
A short time afterwards a taxi pulled up at Edenhall Mansions and Nan stepped out of it. Penelope sprang up to welcome her as she entered the sitting-room. She was darning stockings, foolish, pretty, silken things—Nan's, be it said.
"Well, how did it go?" she asked eagerly.
"The concert? Oh, quite well. I had a very good reception, and this morning's notices in the newspapers were positively calculated to make me blush."
There was an odd note of indifference in her voice; the concert did not appear to interest her much. Penelope pursued her interrogation.
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
A curious look of reminiscence came into Nan's eyes.
"Oh, yes. I enjoyed myself. Very much."