lready half-past four. He had not
the faintest hope that Luttrell would come. Stella had no doubt pressed
him to come. She had probably been a little importunate. Luttrell's
promise was an excuse, just an excuse to be rid of her--nothing more.

"Luttrell has probably a great deal to do on this last afternoon," he
suggested.

"Of course, he won't be able to stay long," Stella Croyle agreed.
"Still, five minutes are worth a good deal, aren't they, if you have
waited for them two years?"

She was impenetrable in her confidence. It clothed her about like
armour. Not for a moment would she doubt--she dared not! Harry was
coming back to the house that afternoon. Would he break something--some
little china ornament upon the mantel-shelf? He generally knocked over
something. What would it be to-day, the mandarin with the nodding head,
or the funny little pot-bellied dwarf which she had picked up at
Christie's the day before? Stella smiled delightedly as she selected
this and that of her little treasures for destruction. Oh, to-day Harry
Luttrell could sweep every glass or porcelain trinket she possessed
into the grate--when once he had passed through the doorway--when once
again he stood within her room. She sat with folded hands, hope like a
rose in her heart, sure of him, so sure of him that she did not even
watch the hands of her clock.

But the hands moved on.

"I will stay, if I may," said Hillyard uncomfortably. "I will go, of
course, when----" and he could not bring himself to complete the
sentence.

Stella, however, added the words, though in a quieter voice and with
less triumph than she had used before.

"When he comes. Yes, do stay. I shall be glad."

Slowly the day drew in. The sunlight died away from the trees in the
park. In the tiny garden great shadows fell. The dusk gathered and
Hillyard and Stella Croyle sat without a word in the darkening room. But
Stella had lost her pride of carriage. On the mantelpiece the clock
struck the hour--six little tinkling silvery strokes. At that moment a
guard was blowing his whistle on a platform of Waterloo and a train
beginning slowly to move.

"He will have missed his train," said Stella in an unhappy whisper. "He
will be here later."

"My dear," replied Hillyard, and leaning forward he took and gently
shook her hand. "Soldiers don't miss their trains."

Stella did not answer. She sat on until the lamps were lit in the
streets outside and in this room the dusk