The Moon out of Reach. Margaret Pedler
tugging reflectively at his big, fair moustache.
"It certainly is a man," conceded Kitty.
"Naturally," agreed her husband amicably.
"But I'm not going to tell you who it is or I know you'd let the cat out of the bag, and then Nan will be put off at the beginning. Men"—superbly—"never can keep a secret."
"But they can use their native observation, my dear," retorted Barry calmly. "And I bet you five to one in gloves that I tell you the name of the man inside a week."
"In a week it won't matter," pronounced Kitty oracularly. "Give me a week—and you can have all the time that's left."
"Well, we'd better occupy what's left of this afternoon in getting back home, old thing," returned her husband. "Or you'll never be dressed in time for the Granleys' dinner to-night."
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."
"I'm so glad. I thought the Chattertons would look after you well."
"They did."
She omitted to add that someone else had looked after her even better—someone distinctly more interesting than dear old Lady Chatterton, kindest soul alive though she might be. For some reason or other Nan felt reluctant to share with Penelope—or with anyone else just at present—the fact of her meeting with Peter Mallory.
"You caught your train all right at Paddington?" went on Penelope.
Nan's mouth tilted in a faint smile.
"Quite all right," she responded placidly.
Finding that the question and answer process was not getting them very far, Penelope resumed her darning and announced her own small item of news.
"Kit's been here this afternoon," she said.
Nan shrugged her shoulders.
"Just my luck to miss her," she muttered irritably.
"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.
Penelope folded a pair of renovated stockings and tossed them into her work-basket.
"The Seymours want us to dine there on Thursday. I suppose you can?" she asked.
"With all the pleasure in life. Their chef is a dream," murmured Nan reminiscently.
"As though you cared!" scoffed Penelope.
Nan lit a cigarette and seated herself on the humpty-dumpty cushion by the fire.
"But I do care—extremely." she averred. "It isn't my little inside which cares. It's a purely external feeling which likes to have everything just right. If it's going to be a dinner, I want it perfect from soup to savoury."
Penelope regarded her with a glint of amusement.
"You're such a demanding person."
"I know I am—about the way things are done. What pleasure is there in anything which offends your sense of fitness?"
"You bestow far too much importance on the outside of the cup and platter."
Nan shook her head.
"Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais—Je bois dans mon verre." she quoted, frivolously obstinate.
"Bah!" Penelope grunted, "The critical faculty is over-developed in you, my child."
"Not a bit! Would you like to drink champagne out of a kitchen tea-cup? Of course not. I merely apply the same principle to other things. For instance, if the man I married ate peas with a knife and made loud juicy noises when he drank his soup, not all the sterling qualities he might possess would compensate. Whereas if he had perfect manners, I believe I could forgive him half the sins in the Decalogue."
"Manners are merely an external," protested Penelope, although privately she acknowledged to a sneaking agreement with Nan's point of view.
"Well," retorted Nan. "We've got to live with externals, haven't we? It's only on rare occasions that people admit each other on to their souls' doorsteps. Besides"—argumentatively—"decent manners aren't an external. They're the 'outward and visible sign.' Why"—waxing enthusiastic—"if a man just opens a door or puts some coal on the fire for you, it involves a whole history of the homage and protective instinct of man for woman."
"The theory may be correct," admitted Penelope, "though a trifle idealistic for the twentieth century. Most men," she added drily, "Regard coaling up the fire as a damned nuisance rather than a 'history of homage.'"
"It oughtn't to be idealistic." There was a faint note of wistfulness in Nan's voice. "Why should everything that is beautiful be invariably termed 'idealistic'? Oh, there are ten thousand things I'd like altered in this world of ours!"
"Of course there are. You wouldn't be you otherwise! You want a specially constructed world and a peculiarly adapted human nature. In fact—you want the moon!"
Nan stared into the fire reflectively.
"I wonder," she said slowly, "if I shall get it?"
Penelope glanced at her sharply.
"It's highly improbable," she said. "But a little philosophy would be quite as useful—and a far more likely acquisition."
As she finished speaking a bell pealed through the