down. Upwards along a glimmering riband of path, a group of students
bore one of their number shoulder-high. Luttrell leaned over the
balustrade. The group below halted; speeches were made; cheers broke out
anew.

"It is the Swedish javelin-thrower. He won the championship of the world
this afternoon."

"Did he?" asked Stella Croyle in a soft voice at his side. "Does he
throw javelins as well as you? You wound me every time."

Luttrell raised his head. It was not fear of defeat which had kept his
looks averted from Stella's dark and starry eyes. No thought of lists
set and a contest to be fought out had even entered his head. But he did
fear to see those eyes glisten with tears--for she so seldom shed them!
And even more than the evidence of her pain he feared the dreadful
submission with which women in the end receive the stroke of fortune. He
had to meet her gaze now, however.

"I put off telling you," he began lamely.

"So that this evening of mine with you might not be spoilt," she
returned. "But, my dear, my evening was already spoilt before the launch
left the yacht gangway. I am not so blind."

Stella Croyle was at this date twenty-six years old; and it was
difficult to picture her any older. Partly because of her vivid
colouring and because she was abrim with life; partly because in her
straightness of limb and the clear treble of her voice, she was boyish.
"What a pretty boy she would make!" was the first thought until you