see, it was on our way back, when it was quite dark, so dark that
really you could see little but the line of sky above the trees, and the
flash of the water at the end of the stroke. I doubt if Luttrell would
have ever told me at all, if it hadn't been for just that one fact, that
we were alone together in the darkness and out on the river."

"Yes, I was wrong," said Stella penitently. "I was impatient. I am
sorry."

More and more, just because of this detail, she was ready to believe
that Harry Luttrell had left her for some reason quite outside
themselves, for some other reason than weariness and the swift end of
passion.

"Luttrell's father, his grandfather and many others of his name had
served in the Clayford Regiment. It was his home regiment and the
tradition of the family binding from father to son, was that there
should always be Luttrells amongst its officers."

"And for that reason Harry----" Stella interrupted impetuously.

"No, there is more compulsion than that in Harry's case," Hillyard took
her up. "Much more! The Clayfords _ran_ in the South African War, and
ran badly. They returned to England a disgraced regiment. Now do you see
the compulsion?"

Stella Croyle turned the problem over in her mind.

"Yes, I think I do," she said, but still was rather doubtful. Then she
looked at the problem through Harry Luttrell's eyes.

"Yes, I understand. The regiment must recover its good name in the next
war. It was an obligation of honour on Harry to take his commission in
it, to bear his part in the recovery."

"Yes. I told you, didn't I? Harry Luttrell was cradled in tradition."

Hillyard saw Mrs. Croyle's face brighten. Now she had the key to Harry
Luttrell. He had joined the Clayfords. And what was his fear at
Stockholm? The slovenly soldier! Yes, he had given her the real reason
after all during that dinner on the balcony at Hasselbacken. He feared
to become the slovenly soldier if he idled longer in England. It was not
because he was tired of her, that the separation had come. Thus she
reasoned, and she reasoned just in one little respect wrong. She had the
real secret without a doubt, that "something else," which Sir Charles
Hardiman divined but could not interpret. But she did not understand
that Harry Luttrell saw in her, one of the factors, nay the chief of the
factors which were converting him into that thing of contempt, the
slovenly soldier.

"Thank you," she said to Hillyard with a smile