ch Stella Croyle had invented for Harry Luttrell, though
by what devious process she had lighted upon it, psychology could not
have discovered. "Wub" was the nickname within the nickname, the
cherished sign that the two of them lived apart in a little close-hedged
garden of their own. Luttrell's eyes were upon her as she spoke it. And
she spoke it with a curious little wistful pursing of soft lips so that
it came to him winged with the memory of all her kisses.

"Oh, Wub, must you leave me?" she pleaded in a breaking whisper. "What
will be left to me if you do?"

Luttrell dropped his forehead in his hands. All the character which he
had in those untried days bade him harden himself against the appeal.
But his resolution was melting like metal in a furnace. He tried to
realise the truth which Hardiman had uttered three or four hours before.
There would be sooner or later a quarrel, a humiliating, hateful quarrel
over some miserable trifle which neither Stella nor he would ever
afterwards forgive. But her voice was breaking with a sob in a whisper
at his ear and how could he look forward so far?

"Stella!"

He turned impulsively towards her.

"The game's up," reflected Sir Charles Hardiman at the end of the table.
"Calypso wins--no, by God!"

For before Luttrell could speak another word, the music crashed and all
that assemblage was on its feet. The orchestra was playing the Swedish
National Anthem; and upon that, one after the other, followed the hymns
of the peoples who had taken part in the Games. In turn the
representatives of each people stood and resumed their seat, the music
underlining their individuality and parking them in sections, even as
rivalry had parked them in the Stadium. The majestic anthem of Russia,
the paean of the Marseillaise, the livelier march of Italy, the song of
Germany, the Star-Spangled Banner; and long before the band struck into
the solemn rhythm of "God save the King," Stella Croyle at all events
knew that Calypso had lost. For she saw a flame illumine Luttrell's face
and transfigure him. He had slipped out of her reach. The doubts and
perplexities which had so troubled him during the last months were now
resolved. As he listened to the Hymns, he saw as in a vision the nations
advancing abreast over a vast plain like battalions in line with their
intervals for manoeuvring spaced out between them. In front of each
nation rolled a grey vapour, which gradually took shape before
Luttre