w clear for the first
time, and I'll never meddle again." She gave Siward's hand a perfunctory
pat and released him with a discreetly stifled yawn. "I'm disgracefully
sleepy; the wind blew like fury along the coast. Sylvia, have you had a
good time at Shotover--the time of your life?"

Sylvia raised her eyes and encountered Siward's.

"I certainly have," she said faintly.

"C'est bien, cherie. Can you be as civil, Stephen--conscientiously? Oh,
that is very nice of you! But there's one thing: why on earth didn't you
make eyes at Marion? Life might be one long, blissful carnival of horse
and dog for you both. Oh, dear! there, I'm meddling again! Pinch me,
Sylvia, if I ever begin to meddle again! How did you come out at Bridge,
Stephen? What--bad as that? Gracious! this is disgraceful--this gambling
the way people do! I'm shocked and I'm going up to dress. Are you
coming, Sylvia?"

The dinner was very gay. The ceremony of christening the Shotover Cup,
which Quarrier had won, proceeded with presentation speech and a speech
of acceptance faultlessly commonplace, during which Quarrier wore his
smile--which was the only humorous thing he contributed.

The cup was full. Siward eyed it, perplexed, deadly afraid, yet seeing
no avenue of escape from what must appear a public exhibition of
contempt for Quarrier if he refused to taste its contents. That meant a
bad night for him; yet he shrank more from the certain misinterpretation
of a refusal to drink from the huge loving-cup with its heavy wreath of
scented orchids, now already on its way toward him, than he feared the
waking struggle so sure to follow.

Marion received the cup, lifted it in both hands, and said distinctly,
"Good Hunting!" as she drank to Quarrier. Her brother Gordon took it,
and drank entirely too much. Then Sylvia lifted it, her white hands half
buried among the orchids: "To you!" she murmured for Siward's ear alone;
then drank gaily, mischievously, "To the best shot at Shotover!" And
Siward took the cup: "I salute victory," he said, smiling, "always, and
everywhere! To him who takes the fighting chance and wins out! To the
best man! Health!" And he drank as a gentleman drinks, with a gay bow to
Quarrier, and with death in his heart.

Later, the irony of it struck him so grimly that he laughed; and Sylvia,
beside him, looked up, dismayed to see the gray change in his face.

"What is it?" she faltered, catching his eye; "why do you--why are you
so wh