ields before the
twelfth hour. His mallet whirled in the air, there was a crack like a
pistol shot, and the ball flew over the amazed goalkeeper's head and
between the posts.

The yelling and handclapping of the few spectators almost drowned the
umpire's whistle.

"By gad, that was a corker!" said he of Chantilly, as the ponies' wild
gallop eased to a canter.

"I hope that flourish of mine did not come too close, Beaumanoir," said
Alec.

"Don't give a tuppenny now," laughed Lord Adalbert Beaumanoir. "The
match is over, and you've won it, and if you play till Doomsday you'll
never score a better notch."

"It was lucky, a sheer fluke."

"Oh, that be jiggered for a yarn! A fellow flukes with his eyes shut.
You meant it!"

"Yes, that is right. So would you, Berty, if it was your last knock."

"Well, time's up, anyhow," said Beaumanoir, not comprehending.

They trotted off to the group of waiting grooms. Delgrado ran the
gauntlet of congratulations, for Paris likes to see Chantilly's flag
lowered, and escaped to the dressing room. He gave a letter, already
written and sealed, to an attendant, and drove away in his dogcart.
Bowling quickly along the broad Allee de Longchamps, he turned into the
Route de l'Etoile, and so to the fine avenue where all Paris takes the
summer air.

He found himself eying the parade of fashion in a curiously detached
mood. Yesterday he thought himself part and parcel of that gay throng.
To-day he was a different being. All that had gone before was merged in
"yesterday's seven thousand years."

His cob's pace did not slacken until he drew rein at the giant doorway
of a block of flats in the Rue Boissiere. It was then about five
o'clock, and he meant to appear at his mother's tea table. He was far
from looking the "limp rag" of his phrase to Joan. Indeed, it might have
taxed the resources of any crack regiment in Paris that day to produce
his equal in condition. Twenty-four years old, nearly six feet in
height, lean and wiry, square wristed, broad shouldered, and straight as
a spear, he met the physical requirements, at least, of those classic
youths beloved of Joan's favorite goddess.

Usually his clean cut face, typically American in its high cheekbones,
firm chin, mobile mouth, and thoughtful eyes, wore a happy-go-lucky
expression that was the despair of matchmaking mamas; but to-day Alec
was serious. He was thinking of the promise that to the souls of fire
would be given more fir