whole idea."

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was angelic enough to offer him mine,
thinking he might be feeling out in the cold!" (another arch look)
"and--he refused. My 'Happy Warrior' doesn't seem quite so happy as he
used to be----"

The light thrust struck home, but Roy ignored it. If Lance barred
wearing favours, he barred discussing Lance with women. Driven into a
corner, he managed somehow to escape, and hurried away in search of his
rose.

Mrs Ranyard, looking after him, with frankly affectionate concern, found
herself wondering--was he really quite so transparent as he seemed? That
queer visionary look in his eyes, now and then, suggested spiritual
depths, or heights, that might baffle even the all-appropriating Rose?
Did she seriously intend to appropriate him? There were vague rumours of
a title. But no one knew anything about him, really, except the two
Desmonds; and she would be a brave woman who tried to squeeze family
details out of them. The boy was too good for her; but still....

Roy, reappearing, felt idiotically convinced that every eye was on the
little spot of yellow in his button-hole that linked him publicly with
the girl who wore a cluster of its fellows at her belt.

Time was nearly up. She had moved to the front now, and was free of men,
standing very still, gazing intently....

Roy, following her gaze, saw Lance--actually in the tent--discussing
some detail with the Colonel.

"What makes her look at him like that?" he wondered; and it was as if
the tip of a red-hot needle touched his heart.

Next moment she saw him, and beckoned him with her eyes. He came,
instinctively obedient; and her welcoming glance included the rosebud.
"You found it?" she said, very low, mindful of feminine ears. "And--you
deserve it, after that marvellous exhibition. You went such a pace.
It--frightened me."

It frightened him, a little, the exceeding softness of her look and
tone; and she added, more softly still, "My handkerchief, please."

"_My_ handkerchief!" he retorted. "I won it fairly. You've admitted as
much."

"But it wasn't meant--for a prize."

"I risked something to win it anyway," said he, "and now----"

The blare of the megaphone--a poor substitute for heralds'
trumpets--called the knights of the wire-mask and fencing-stick into the
lists.

"Go in and win the rosebud too!" said she, when the shouting ceased.
"Keep cool. Don't lose your head--or your feather!"

He had lost his head alre