In due course Mallory paid his call upon the occupants of the flat, and entertained both girls immensely by the utter lack of self-consciousness with which he a.s.sisted in the preparations for tea--toasting scones and coaxing the kettle to boil as naturally as they themselves would have done.

He had none of the average Englishman's _mauvaise honte_--though be it thankfully acknowledged that, in the case of the younger generation, the experiences of the war have largely contributed towards rubbing it off. Mallory appeared serenely unconscious of any incongruity in the fact of a man whose clothes breathed Savile Row and whose linen was immaculate as only that of the Londoner--determinedly emergent from the grime of the city--ever is, pottering about in the tiny kitchen, and brooding over the blackly obstinate kettle.

This first visit was soon followed by others, and then by a foursome dinner at the Carlton, Ralph Fenton being invited to complete the party. Before long Peter was on a pleasant footing of intimacy with the two girls at the flat, though beyond this he did not seek to progress.

The explanation was simple enough. Primarily he was always aware of the cord which shackled him to a restless, b.u.t.terfly woman who played at life out in India, and secondly, although he was undoubtedly attracted by Nan, he was not the type of man to fall headlong in love.

He was too fastidious, too critical, altogether too much master of himself. Few women caused him a single quickened heart-beat. But it is to such men as this that when at last love grips them, binding them slowly and secretly with its clinging tendrils, it comes as an irresistible force to be reckoned with throughout the remainder of their lives.

So it came about that as the weeks grew into months, Mallory perceived--dimly and with a quaint resignation to the inevitable--that Nan and Love were coming to him hand in hand.

His first thought had been to seek safety in flight; then that gently humorous philosophy with which he habitually looked life in the face a.s.serted itself, and with a shrug and a muttered "Kismet," he remained.

Nan appealed to him as no other woman had ever done. The ineffaceable quality of race about her pleased his fastidious taste; the French blood in her called to his; nor could he escape the heritage of charm bequeathed her by the fair and frail Angele de Varincourt. Above all, he understood her. Her temperament--idealistic and highly-strung, responsive as a violin to every shade of atmosphere--invoked his own, with its sensitiveness and keen, perceptive faculty.

But this very comprehension of her temperament blinded him to the possibility that there was any danger of her growing to care for him other than as a friend. He appreciated the fact that she had just received a buffeting from fate, that her confidence was shaken and her pride hurt to breaking-point, and the thought never entered his head that a woman so recently bruised by the hands of love--or more truly, love's simulacrum--could be tempted to risk her heart again so soon.

Feeling very safe, therefore, in the fact of his marriage, which was yet no marriage, and sure that there was no chance of his hurting Nan, he let himself love her, keeping his love tenderly in one of those secret empty rooms of the heart--empty rooms of which only the thrice-blessed in this world have no knowledge.

Outwardly, all that Peter permitted himself was to give her an unfailing friendship, to surround her with an atmosphere of homage and protection and adapt himself responsively to her varying moods. This he did untiringly, demanding nothing in return--and he alone knew the bitter effort it cost him.

Gradually Nan began to lean upon him, finding in the restfulness of such a friendship the healing of which she stood in need. She worked at her music with suddenly renewed enthusiasm, secure in the knowledge that Peter was always at hand to help and criticise with kindly, unerring judgment. She ceased to rail at fate and almost learned to bring a little philosophy--the happy philosophy of laughter--to bear upon the ills of life.

Consciously she thought of him only as Peter--Peter, her good pal--and so long as the pleasant, even course of their friendship remained uninterrupted she was never likely to realise that something bigger and more enduring than mere comradeship lay at the back of it all. She, too, like Mallory, rea.s.sured herself with the fact of his marriage--though the wife she had never seen and of whom Peter never spoke had inevitably receded in her mind into a somewhat vague and nebulous personality.

"Well?" demanded Kitty triumphantly one day. "And what is your opinion of Peter Mallory now?"

As she spoke, she caressed with light finger-tips a bowl of sun-gold narcissus--Mallory habitually kept the Edenhall flat supplied with flowers.

"We're frankly grateful to you for introducing him," replied Penelope.

"He's been an absolute G.o.dsend all through this hateful long winter."

"What's so perfect about him," added Nan, "is that he never jars on one. He's never Philistine."

"In fact," interpolated Penelope somewhat ruefully, "he's so far from being Philistine that he has a dreadful faculty for making me feel deplorably commonplace."

Kitty gurgled.

"What rubbish! I'm sure nothing in the world would make Peter more unhappy than to think he affected anyone like that. He's the least a.s.suming and most tender-hearted soul I know. You may be common-sense, Penny dear, but you're not in the least commonplace. They're two quite different things."

Nan lit a cigarette with deliberation.

"I'll tell you what is remarkable about Peter Mallory," she said.

"He's _sahib_--right through. Very few men are."

Kitty, always tolerant and charitable, patted her arm deprecatingly.

"Oh, come, Nan, that's rather sweeping. There are heaps of nice men in the world."

"Heaps," a.s.sented Nan agreeably. "Heaps--bless 'em! But very few _preux chevaliers_. I only know two--one is my lamb of an uncle and the other is Peter."

"And where does my poor Barry come in?"

Nan smiled across at her indulgently.

"Barry? Pooh! He's just a delightful overgrown schoolboy--and you know it!"

July in London, hot, dusty, and oppressive. Even the breezy alt.i.tude of the top-floor flat could not save its occupants from the intense heat which seemed to be wafted up from the baking streets below. The flat was "at home" to-day, the festive occasion indicated by the quant.i.ties of flowers which adorned it--big bowls of golden-hearted roses, tall vases of sweet peas--the creamy-yellow ones which merge into oyster pink, while the gorgeous royal scarlet of "King Edward"

glowed in dusky corners.

Penelope trailed somewhat lethargically hither and thither, adding last touches to the small green tables, arranged in readiness for bridge, and sighing at the oppressive heat of the afternoon. First she opened the windows to let in the air, then closed them to shut out the heat, only to fling them open once again, exclaiming impatiently:

"Phew! I really don't know which is the cooler!"

"Neither!" responded a gay voice from the doorway. "The bottomless pit would probably be refreshingly draughty in comparison with town just now."

Penelope whirled round to find Kitty, immaculate in white from head to foot and looking perfectly cool and composed, standing on the threshold.

"How do you manage it?" she said admiringly. "Even in this sweltering heat, when the rest of us look as though we had run in the wash, you give the impression that you've just stepped out of a refrigerated bandbox."

"Appearances are as deceitful as usual, then," replied Kitty, sinking down into an arm-chair and unfurling a small fan. "I'm simply melted!

Am I the first arrival?" she continued. "Where's Nan?"

"She and Peter are decorating the tea-table--smiles and things, you know"--Penelope waved an explanatory hand.

Kitty nodded.

"I think my plan was a good one, don't you? Peter's been an excellent antidote to Maryon Rooke," she observed complacently.

"I'm not so sure," returned Penelope with characteristic caution. "I think a married man--especially such an _un_married married man as Pete--is rather a dangerous antidote."

"Nonsense! They both _know_ he's married! And they've both got normal common-sense."

"But," objected Penelope, suddenly and unexpectedly, "love has nothing whatever to do with common-sense."

Kitty gazed at her in frank amazement.

"Penelope! What's come to you? We've always regarded you as the severely practical member of the community, and here you are talking rank heresy!"

Penelope laughed a little, and a faint flush stole up into her cheeks.

"I'm not un.o.bservant, remember," she returned, lightly, her eyes avoiding Kitty's. "And my observations have led me to the conclusion that love and common-sense are distinctly antipathic."

"Well, Nan seems quite happy and cheerful again, anyway," retorted Kitty. "And if she'd fallen in love with Peter, knowing that there was a very much alive Mrs. Peter in the background, she would hardly be feeling particularly cheery."

"Oh, I don't think Nan's fallen in love--yet. And as to her present joyful mood, that's easily accounted for by the doubled income Lord St.