and then drawing it back from the box, and quite unaware of what
he was doing.

"We had better introduce ourselves, I think. I am Joan Whitworth."

She held out her hand to him over the balustrade. He had but to reach up
and take it. It was a cool hand, and a cordial one.

"Martin Hillyard has talked to me about you," he said.

"I like him," she replied. "He's a dear."

"He told me enough to make me frightened at the prospect of meeting
you."

Joan leaned over the banister.

"But now that we have met, you aren't really frightened, are you?" she
asked in so wistful a voice, and with a look so deeply pleading in her
big blue eyes that no young man could have withstood her.

Harry Luttrell laughed.

"I am not. I am not a bit frightened. In fact I am almost bold enough to
ask you a question."

"Yes, Colonel Luttrell?"

The invitation was clear enough. But the Colonel was suddenly aware of
his audacity and faltered.

"Oh, do ask me, Colonel Luttrell!" she pleaded. The old-fashioned would
have condemned Joan Whitworth as a minx at this moment, but would have
softened the condemnation with a smile forced from them by her winning
grace.

"Well, I will," replied Luttrell, and with great solemnity he asked,
"How is Linda Spavinsky?"

Joan ran down the remaining steps, and dropped into a chair. A peal of
laughter, silvery and clear, and joyous rang out from her mouth.

"Oh, she's not at all well to-day. I believe she's going. Her health was
never very stable."

Then her mood changed altogether. The laughter died away, the very look
of it faded from her face. She stood up and faced Harry Luttrell. In the
depths of her eyes there appeared a sudden gravity, a certain
wistfulness, almost a regret.

She spoke simply:

"Iram indeed is gone with all his rose,
And Jamshyd's seven-ringed cup--where, no one knows!
But still a ruby kindles in the vine,
And many a garden by the water blows."

She had the air of one saying good-bye to many pleasant follies which
for long had borne her company--and saying good-bye with a sort of doubt
whether that which was in store for her would bring a greater happiness.

Harry Luttrell had no answer, and no very distinct comprehension of her
mood. But he was stirred by it. For a little while they looked at one
another without any words. The air about them in that still hall
vibrated with the emotions of violins. Joan Whitworth was the first to
break the dan