r
knew." And she raised her glass to him, frankly, and emptied it with the
precision characteristic of her: "Your cup! With all my heart!"

"I also drink to your success, Mr. Siward," said Sylvia in a low voice,
lifting her champagne glass in the sunlight. "To the Shotover Cup--if
you wish it." And as other glasses sparkled aloft amid a gay tumult of
voices wishing him success, Sylvia dropped her voice, attuning it to
his ear alone: "Success for the cup, if you wish it--or, whatever you
wish--success!" and she meant it very kindly.

His hand resting on his glass he sat, smiling silent acknowledgment to
the noisy generous toasts; he turned and looked at Sylvia when her low
voice caught his ear--looked at her very steadily, unsmiling.

Then to the others, brightening again, he said a word or two, wittily,
with a gay compliment well placed and a phrase to end it in good taste.
And, in the little gust of hand-clapping and laughter, he turned again
to Sylvia, smilingly, saying under his breath: "As though winning the
cup could compensate me now for losing it!"

She leaned involuntarily nearer: "You mean that you will not try for
it?"

"Yes."

"That is not fair--to me!"

"Why not?"

"Because--because I do not ask it of you."

"You need not, now that I know your wish."

"Mr. Siward, I--my wish--"

But she had no chance to finish; already Rena Bonnesdel was looking
at them, and there was a hint of amused surprise in Eileen Shannon's
mischievous eyes, averted instantly, with malicious ostentation.

Then Marion Page took possession of him so exclusively, so calmly, that
something in her cool certainty vaguely irritated Sylvia, who had never
liked her. Besides, the girl showed too plainly her indifference to
other people; which other people seldom find amusing.

"Stephen," called out Alderdene, anxiously counting the web loops in
his khaki vest, "what do you call fair shooting at these damnable ruffed
grouse? You needn't be civil about it, you know."

"Five shells to a bird is good shooting," answered Siward. "Don't you
think so, Miss Page?"

"You have a better score, Mr. Siward," said Marion Page with a hostile
glance at Alderdene, who had not made good.

"That was chance--and this year's birds. I've taken ten shells to an old
drummer in hard wood or short pines." He smiled to himself, adding:
"A drove of six in the open got off scot free a little while ago. Miss
Landis saw it."

That he was inclined to tur