"And you enjoyed it?" asked Stella.

"I had the most wondrous time," Hillyard replied fervently. "There was
one bad evening, when I realised that I couldn't write poetry. After
that I cut my hair and joined the Wine Club. I stroked the Torpid and
rowed three in my College Eight. I had friends for the first time. One
above all"

He stopped over-abruptly. Stella Croyle had the impression of a careless
sentinel suddenly waked, suddenly standing to attention at the door of a
treasure-house of memories. She was challenged. Very well. It was her
humour to take the challenge up just to prove to herself that she could
slip past a man's guard if the spirit moved her. She turned on Hillyard
a pair of most friendly sympathetic eyes.

"Tell me of your friend."

"Oh, there's not much to tell. He rowed in the same boat with me. He had
just what I had not--traditions. From his small old brown manor-house in
a western county to his very choice of a career, he was wrapped about in
tradition. He went into the army. He had to go."

"What is his name?"

Stella Croyle interrupted him. She was not looking at him any more. She
was staring into the fire, and her body was very still. But there was
excitement in her voice.

"Harry Luttrell," replied Hillyard, and Stella Croyle did not move. "I