"I won't. You've read this new book, I suppose?"
"Yes. And you must. It's the finest study of a woman's temperament I've ever come across. . . . Goodness knows he's had opportunity enough to study the subject!"
Nan froze a little.
"Oh, is he a gay Lothario sort of person?" she asked coldly. "He didn't strike me in that light."
"No. He's not in the least like that. He's an ideal husband wasted."
Nan's eyes twinkled.
"Don't poach on preserved ground, Kitty. Marriages are made in heaven."
As she spoke the door opened to admit the men, and somebody claiming Kitty's attention at the moment she turned away without reply. For a few minutes the conversation became more general until, after a brief hum and stir, congenial spirits sought and found each other and settled down into little groups of twos and threes. Somewhat to Nan's surprise—and, although she would not have acknowledged it, to her annoyance—Peter Mallory ensconced himself next to Penelope, and Ralph Fenton, the singer, thus driven from the haven where he would be, came to anchor beside Nan.
"I've not seen you for a long time, Miss Davenant. How's the world been treating you?"
"Rather better than usual," she replied gaily. "More ha'pence than kicks for once in a way."