The Moon out of Reach. Margaret Pedler
with auburn hair—the very newest shade—brown eyes that owed their shadowed lids to kohl, a glorious skin (which she had had the sense to leave to nature), and, a chic little face at once so kind and humorous and entirely delightful, that all censure was disarmed.
Her dress was Paquin, her jewellery extravagant, but her heart was as big as her banking account, and there was not a member of her household, from her adoring husband down to the kitchen-maid who evicted the grubs from the cabbages, who did not more or less worship the ground she walked on. Even her most intimate women friends kept their claws sheathed—and that, despite the undeniable becomingness of the dyed hair.
"We only got back to town last night," she said, returning Penelope's salute with fervour. "So I flew round this morning to see how you two were getting on. I can't think how you've managed without the advantage of my counsels for three whole months!"
"I don't think we have managed too well," admitted Penelope drily.
"There! What did I say?"—with manifest delight. "I told Barry, when he would go up to Scotland just for the pleasure of killing small birds, that I was sure something would happen in my absence. What is it? Nothing very serious, of course. By the way, where's Nan this morning?"
"Playing at a concert in Exeter. At least, the concert took place last night. I'm expecting her back this afternoon."
"Well, that's good news, not bad. How did you induce her to do it?
She's been slacking abominably lately."
Penelope nodded sombrely.
"I know. I've been pitching into her for it. The Peace has upset her."
"She's like every other girl. She can't settle down after four years of perpetual thrills and excitement. But if she'd had a husband fighting"—Kitty's gay little face softened incredibly—"she'd be thanking God on her knees that the war is over—however beastly," she added characteristically, "the peace may be."
"She worked splendidly during the war," interposed Penelope, her sense of justice impelling the remark.
"Yes"—quickly. "But she's done precious little work of any kind since.
What's she been doing lately? Has she written anything new?"
Penelope laughed grimly.
"Oh, a song or two. And she's composed one gruesome thing which makes your blood run cold. It's really for orchestra, and I believe it's meant to represent the murder of a soul. … It does!"
"She's rather inclined to err on the side of tragedy," observed Kitty.
"Especially just now," added Penelope pointedly.
Kitty glanced sharply across at her.
"What do you mean? Is anything wrong with Nan?"
"Yes, there's something very wrong. I'm worried about her."
"Well, what is it?"—impatiently.
"It's all the fault of that wretched artist man we met at your house."
"Do you mean Maryon Rooke?"
"Yes"—briefly. "He's rather smashed Nan up."
"He? Nan?" Kitty's voice rose in a crescendo of incredulity. "But he was crazy about her! Has been, all through the war. Why, I thought there was practically an understanding between them!"
"Yes. So did most people," replied Penelope shortly.
"For goodness' sake be more explicit, Penny! Surely she hasn't turned him down?"
"He hasn't given her the chance."
"You mean—you can't mean that he's chucked her?"
"That's practically what it amounts to. And I don't understand it. Nan is so essentially attractive from a man's point of view."
"How do you know?" queried Kitty whimsically. "You're only a woman."
"Why, because I've used my eyes, my dear! … But in this case it seems we were all mistaken. If ever a man deliberately set himself to make a woman care, Maryon Rooke was the man. And when he'd succeeded—he went away."
Kitty produced a small gold cigarette case from the depths of an elaborate bead bag and extracted a cigarette. She lit it and began smoking reflectively.
"And I suppose all this, coming on top of the staleness of things in general after the war, has flattened her out?"
"It's given her a bad knock."
"Did she tell you anything about it?"
"A little. He came here to say good-bye to her before going to France—"
"I know," interpolated Kitty. "He's going there to paint Princess
Somebody-or-other while she's staying in Paris."
"Well, I came in when he'd left and found Nan sitting like a stone statue, gazing blankly in front of her. She wouldn't say much, but bit by bit I dragged it out of her. Since then she has never referred to the matter again. She is quite gay at times in a sort of artificial way, but she doesn't do any work, though she spends odd moments fooling about at the piano. She goes out morning, noon, and night, and comes back dead-beat, apparently not having enjoyed herself at all. Can you imagine Nan like that?"
"Not very easily."
"I believe he's taken the savour out of things for her," said Penelope, adding slowly, in a voice that was quite unlike her usual practical tones: "Brushed the bloom off the world for her."
"Poor old Nan! She must be hard hit. … She's never been hurt badly before."
"Never—before she met that man. I can't forgive him, Kitty. I'm horribly afraid what sort of effect this miserable affair is going to have on a girl of Nan's queer temperament."
Kitty turned the matter over in her mind in silence. Then with a small, sage nod of her red head, she advanced a suggestion.
"Bring her over to dinner to-morrow—no, not to-morrow, I'm booked. Say Thursday, and I'll have a nice man to meet her. She needs someone to play around with. There's nothing like another man to knock the first one out of a woman's head. It's cure by homeopathy."
Penelope smiled dubiously.
"It's a bit of bad luck on the second man, isn't it—if he's nice? You know, Nan is rather fatal to the peace of the male mind."
"Oh, the man I'm thinking of has himself well in hand. He's a novelist—and finds safety in numbers. His mother was French."
"And Nan's great-grandmother. Kitty, is it wise?"
"Extreme measures are sometimes necessary. He and she will hit it off together at once, I know."
As Kitty finished speaking there came a trill at the front-door bell, followed a minute later by a masculine knock on the door.
"Come in," cried Penelope.
The door opened to admit a tall, fair man who somehow reminded one of a big, genial Newfoundland.
"I've called for my wife," he said, shaking hands with. Penelope, and smiling down at her with a pair of lazily humorous blue eyes. "Can I have her?"
"In a minute, Barry"—Kitty nodded at him cheerfully. "We're just settling plans about Nan."
"Nan? I should have imagined that young woman was very capable of making her own plans," returned Barry Seymour, letting his long length down into a chair. "In fact, I was under the impression she'd already made 'em," he added with a grin.
"No, they're unsettled at present," returned Kitty. "She's not very keen about Maryon Rooke now." Kitty was of the opinion that you should never tell even the best of husbands more than he need know. "So we think she requires distraction," she pursued firmly.
"And who's the poor devil you've fixed on as a burnt-offering?" enquired