She looked him fairly in the eyes. "What is lacking, Mr. Winton--the
spur?"

"Possibly," he rejoined. "There is no one near enough to care, or to
say 'Well done!'"

"How can you tell?" she questioned musingly. "It is not always
permitted to us to hear the plaudits or the hisses--happily, I think.
Yet there are always those standing by who are ready to cry '_Io
triumphe_!' and mean it, when one approves himself a good soldier."

The coffee had been served, and Winton sat thoughtfully stirring the
lump of sugar in his cup. Miss Carteret was not having a monopoly of
the new experiences. For instance, it had never before happened to
John Winton to have a woman, young, charming, and altogether lovable,
read him a lesson out of the book of the overcomers.

He smiled inwardly and wondered what she would say if she could know
to what battlefield the drumming wheels of the Limited were speeding
him. Would she be loyal to her mentorship and tell him he must win, at
whatever the cost to Mr. Somerville Darrah and his business
associates? Or would she, womanlike, be her uncle's partizan and write
one John Winton down in her blackest book for daring to oppose the
Rajah?

He assured himself it would make no jot of difference if he knew. He
had a thing to do, and he was purposed to do it strenuously,
inflexibly. Yet in the inmost chamber of his heart, where the
barbarian ego stands unabashed and isolate and recklessly contemptuous