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. She stood aside now from
the door. "It was kind of you to bring me home and talk with me for a
little while."

But it seems that her recovery of spirits did not last out the night.
Doubts assailed her--Harry Luttrell was beneath other skies with other