first name which 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