haunts to bid her friends farewell. And Teddy
Duncombe found her as captivating as ever. She was more than beautiful.
She was positively dazzling.

What a splendid pair she and Pat would make, Duncombe thought to himself
as he watched her. A man like Major Hone, V.C., ought to find a mate.
Every king should have a queen.

The thought was still in his mind, possibly in his eyes also, when
abruptly Mrs. Perceval turned her head and caught him.

"Taking notes, Captain Duncombe?" she asked, with a smile too careless
to be malicious.

"Playing providence, Mrs. Perceval," he answered without embarrassment.

He had never been embarrassed in her presence yet. She had a happy knack
of setting her friends at ease.

"I hope you are preparing a kind fate for me," she said.

He laughed a little. "What would you call a kind fate?"

Her dark eyes flashed. She looked for a moment scornful. "Not the usual
woman's Utopia," she said. "I have been through that and come out on the
other side."

"I can hardly believe it," protested Teddy.

"Don't you know I am a cynic?" she said, with a little reckless laugh.

A second wild shout from the spectators on all sides of them swept their
conversation away. On the further side of the ground Hone, with steady
wrist and faultless aim, had just sent the ball whizzing between the
posts.

It was the end of the match, and Hone was once more the hero of the
hour.

"Really, I sometimes think the gods are too kind to Major Hone," smiled
Mrs. Chester, the colonel's wife, and Mrs. Perceval's hostess. "It can't
be good for him to be always on the winning side."

Hone was trotting quietly down the field, laughing all over his
handsome, sunburnt face at the cheers that greeted him. He dismounted
close to Mrs. Perceval, and was instantly seized by Duncombe and thumped
upon the back with all the force of his friend's goodwill.

"Pat, old fellow, you're the finest sportsman in the Indian Empire.
Those chaps haven't been beaten for years."

Hone laughed easily and swung himself free. "They've got some knowing
little brutes of ponies, by the powers," he said. "They slip about like
minnows. The Ace of Trumps was furious. Did you hear him squeal?"

He turned with the words to his own pony and kissed the velvet nose that
was rubbing against his arm.

"And a shame it is to make him carry a lively five tons," he murmured in
his caressing Irish brogue.

For Hone was a giant as well as a hero and he