But now the whole situation was altered. Unmistakably Maryon Rooke still meant a good deal to Nan, although Peter felt a certain consciousness that if he were to pit himself against Rooke he could probably make the latter's position very insecure. But was it fair? Was it fair to take advantage of the quick responsiveness of Nan's emotions--that sensitiveness which gave reply as readily as a violin to the bow?
She was not a woman to find happiness very easily, and he himself had nothing to offer her except a love that must always be forbidden, unconsummated. In God's Name, then, if Maryon Rooke could give her happiness, what right had he to stand in the way?
By the time the taxi had brought him to the door of Kitty's house, his decision was taken. He would clear out--see as little of Nan as possible. It was the best thing he could do for her, and the consideration of what it would cost him he relegated to a later period.
His steps lagged somewhat as he followed the manservant upstairs to Kitty's own particular den, and the slight limp which the war had left him seemed rather more marked than usual. Any great physical or nervous strain, invariably produced this effect. But he mustered up a smile as he entered the room and held out the recovered fan.
The "little milliner" was nowhere to be seen, and Kitty herself was ensconced on the Chesterfield, enjoying an iced lemon-squash and a cigarette, while Penelope and Barry were downstairs playing a desultory game of billiards. The irregular click of the ivory balls came faintly to Mallory's ears.
"Got my fan, Peter? Heaps of thanks. What will you have? A whisky-and-soda? . . . Why--Peter--"
She broke on abruptly as she caught sight of his face. He was rather pale and his eyes had a tired, beaten look in them.
He smiled down at her as she lay tucked up amongst her cushions.
"Something is," replied Kitty decidedly. "Did I swish you away from the flat against your will?"
"I should be a very ungrateful person if I failed to appreciate my present privileges."
"You're a very annoying person!" she returned. "You invariably take refuge in a compliment."
"Dear Madame Kitty"--Mallory leaned forward and looked down at her with his steady grey-blue eyes--"dear Madame Kitty, I say to you _what I mean_. I do not compliment my friends"--his voice deepened--"my dear, trusted friends."