Everyone appeared to be talking at once and the air was full of the murmur of wins and losses and of sharp-edged criticism of "my partner's play." Maryon Rooke alone showed no signs of moving, but remained standing a little apart near the window, an unlit cigarette in his hand.
"Penelope, do come back to Green Street with me." Kitty's voice was beseeching.

"My little milliner was to have had a couple of hats ready for me this afternoon, which means she will arrive with a perfect avalanche of boxes, each containing a dinkier hat than the last, and I shall fall a helpless victim." Her husband grinned unkindly.
"Yes, do come along, Penny," he urged.

"Then you can lay a restraining hand on Kitty when she's bought the first half dozen." "There'll just be time before dinner, and the car shall bring you back again," entreated Kitty, and Penelope, knowing that the former would be but clay in the practised hands of her "little milliner," smiled acquiescence.
"Barry"-- Kitty tapped her husband's arm--"go down and see if the car is there.

Peter, can I drop you anywhere ?" In a couple of minutes the room was cleared, and Kitty, shepherding her flock before her, departed in a gale of good-byes, leaving Nan and Maryon Rooke together.
Each was silent.

The girl's small head was thrown back, and in the poise of her slim young body there was a mingling of challenge and appealing self-defence.