rash.
Little one I am yours._--LINDA SPAVINSKY."

The telegram had been sent that afternoon from Chichester.

Hillyard gazed around at the serious faces which hemmed him in. It
became a contest as to whose face should hold firm longest. Joan herself
was the first to flee, and she was found rocking to and fro in silent
laughter in a corner of the library. Then Hillyard himself burst into a
roar.

"I bought that fairly," he admitted, and he went up several points in
the estimation of them all.

The last day of the races came--all sunshine and hot summer; lights and
shadows chasing across the downs, the black slopes of Charlton forest on
the one side, parks and green fields and old brown houses, sloping to
the silver Solent, upon the other; and in the centre of the plain, by
Bosham water, the spire of Chichester Cathedral piercing the golden air.
Paddock and lawn and the stands were filled until about two in the
afternoon. Then the gaps began to show to those who were concerned to
watch. Especially about the oval railings in the paddock, within which,
dainty as cats and with sleek shining skins, the racehorses stepped, the
crowd grew thin. And in a few moments, the word had run round like fire,
"The officers had gone."

Hillyard stood reflecting upon the stupendous fact. Never had he so
bitterly regretted that physical disqualification which banned him from
their company. Never had he so envied Luttrell. He was in the uttermost
depression when a small, brown-gloved hand touched his arm. He turned
and saw Joan Whitworth at his side, her lovely face alive with
excitement, her eyes most friendly. It was hardly at all the Joan he
knew. Joan had courage, but to face Goodwood in the clothes she affected
at Rackham Park was beyond it. From her grey silk stockings and suede
shoes to the little smart blue hat which sat so prettily on her hair,
she was, as Millicent Splay would have admitted, really dressed.

"There is a real telegram for you," she said. She held it out to him
enclosed in an envelope which had been already opened.

"_Please come to see me--Graham_," he read, and the actual receipt of
the message stirred within him such a whirl of emotion that, for a
moment or two, Joan Whitworth spoke and he was not aware of it.
Suddenly, however, he understood that she was speaking words of
importance.

"I hope I did right to open it," she said. "Colonel Brockley rode over
this morning to tell us that his son had bee