oyle dried the tears from her cheeks and stood up.

"I have been foolish. You won't find me like that again," she cried, and
she helped Hillyard on with his coat. She went to the door to see him
out, but stopped as she grasped the handle.

All Hillyard's talk about himself had passed in at one ear and out at
the other. But every word which he had spoken about Harry Luttrell was
written on her heart. And one phrase had kindled a tiny spark of hope.
She had put it aside by itself, wanting more knowledge about it, and
meaning to have that knowledge before Hillyard departed. She put her
question now, with the door still closed and her back to it.

"You said that Harry _had_ to join the army. What did you mean by that?"

Hillyard hesitated.

"Did he not tell you himself?"

"No."

Hillyard stood between loyalty to his friend and the recollection of
Stella Croyle's tears. If Luttrell had not told her--why then----

"Then I don't well see how I can," he said uncomfortably.

"But I want to know," said Stella, bending her brows at him in
astonishment that he should refuse her so small a thing. Then her manner
changed. "Oh, I do want to know," she cried, and Hillyard's obstinacy
broke down.

Men have the strangest fancies which compel them to do out of all
reason, even the things which they hate to do, and to put aside what
they hold most dear. Fancies unintelligible to practical people like
women--thus Stella Croyle's thoughts ran--but to be taken note of very
carefully. High-flown motives from a world of white angels, where no
doubt they are very suitable. But men will use them as working motives
here below, with the result that they wreck women's hearts and cause
themselves a great deal of useless misery.

Stella's hopes and her self-esteem had for long played with the thought
that it might possibly be one of those impracticable notions which had
whipped Harry Luttrell up to the rupture of their alliance; that after
all, it was not that he was tired of a chain. Yes, she wanted to know.

"Luttrell only told me once, only spoke about it once," said Hillyard
shifting from one foot to the other. "The week after the eights. We
rowed down to Kennington Island in a racing pair, had supper there----"

"Yes, yes," Stella Croyle interrupted. Oh, how dense men could be to be
sure! What in the world did it matter, how or when the secret was told?

"I beg your pardon," said Hillyard. "But really it does matter a little.
You