going to join the tennis players," he said. Hillyard was
already dressed for the game, and carried a racket in his hand. "I must
write a letter, then I will come out and watch you."

"Right," said Martin, and he left his friend to his letter.

The hall was very still. A bee came buzzing in at the open window, made
a tour of the flower-vases, and flew out again into the sunshine. From
the lawn the cries of the tennis players, the calls of thrush and
blackbird and dishwasher, were wafted in on waves of perfume from the
roses. It was very pleasant and restful to Harry Luttrell after the
sweat and labour of France. He sighed as he folded his letter and
addressed it to a friend in the War Office.

A letter-box stood upon a table close to the staircase. He was carrying
his letter over to it, when a girl came running lightly down the stairs
and halted suddenly a step or two from the bottom. She stood very still
where Stella Croyle had stood a few minutes ago, and like Stella, she
looked over the balustrade at Harry Luttrell. Harry Luttrell had reached
the letter-box when he caught sight of her, but he quite forgot to drop
his letter through the slit. He stood transfixed with wonder and
perplexity; wonder at her beauty; perplexity as to who she was.

Martin Hillyard had spoken to him of Joan Whitworth. By the delicious
oval of her face, the deep blue of her eyes, the wealth of rippling
bright hair, the soft bloom of colour on her cheeks, and her slim,
boyish figure--the girl should rightly be she. But it couldn't be! No,
it couldn't! This girl's lips were parted in a whimsical friendly smile;
her eyes danced; she was buoyant with joy singing at her heart.
Besides--besides----! Luttrell looked at her clothes. She wore a little
white frock of chiffon and lace, as simple as could be, but even to a
man's eyes it was that simplicity which is the last word of a good
dressmaker. A huge rose of blue and silver at her waist was its only
touch of colour. With it she wore a white, broad-brimmed hat of straw
with a great blue bow and a few narrow streamers of blue ribbon floating
jauntily, white stockings and shoes, cross-gartered round her slender
ankles with shining ribbons. Was it she? Was it not? Was Martin Hillyard
crazy or the whole world upside down?

"You must be Colonel Luttrell," his gracious vision exclaimed, with
every appearance of surprise.

"I am," replied Luttrell. He was playing with his letter, half slipping
it in,