There are heaps of nice men in the world." "Heaps," assented 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 altitude 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 quantities 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.