"No, it isn't 'just your luck,' my dear. It's anyone's luck. You make such a grievance of trifles."
In an instant Nan's charming smile flashed out.
"I am a beast," she said in a tone of acquiescence. "What on earth should I do without you, Penny, to bully me and generally lick me into shape?" She dropped a light kiss on the top of Penelope's bent head. "But, truly, I hate to miss Kit Seymour. She's as good as a tonic—and just now I feel like a bottle of champagne that's been uncorked for a week."
"You're overtired," replied Penelope prosaically. "You're so—so excessive in all you do."
Nan laughed.
"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," she acknowledged. "Well, what's the Kitten's news? What colour is her hair this season?"
"Red. It suits her remarkably well."
Nan rippled with mirth.
"I never knew a painted Jezebel so perfectly delightful as Kitty. Even
Aunt Eliza can't resist her."
Mrs. McBain, generally known to her intimates as "Aunt Eliza," was a connection of Nan's on the paternal side. She was a lady of Scottish antecedents and Early Victorian tendencies, to whom the modern woman and her methods were altogether anathema. She regarded her niece as walking—or, more truly, pirouetting aggressively—along the road which leads to destruction.