“Well played, Hone!  Oh, well played indeed!”

A great roar of applause went up from the polo-ground like the surge and wash of an Atlantic roller.  The regimental hero was distinguishing himself—­a state of affairs by no means unusual, for success always followed Hone.  His luck was proverbial in the regiment, as sure and as deeply-rooted as his popularity.

“It’s the devil’s own concoction,” declared Teddy Duncombe, Major Hone’s warmest friend and admirer, who was watching from the great stand near the refreshment-tent.  “It never fails.  We call him Achilles because he always carries all before him.”

“Even Achilles had his vulnerable point,” remarked Mrs. Perceval, to whom the words were addressed.

She spoke with her dark eyes fixed upon the distant figure.  Seen from a distance, he seemed to be indeed invincible—­a magnificent horseman who rode like a fury, yet checked and wheeled his pony with the skill of a circus rider.  But there was no admiration in Mrs. Perceval’s intent gaze.  She looked merely critical.

“Pat hasn’t,” replied Duncombe, whose love for Hone was no mean thing, and who gloried in his Irish major’s greatness.  “He’s a man in ten thousand—­the finest specimen of an imperfect article ever produced.”

His enthusiasm fell on barren ground.  Mrs. Perceval was not apparently bestowing much attention upon him.  She was watching the play with brows slightly drawn.

Duncombe looked at her with faint surprise.  She was not often unappreciative, and he could not imagine any woman failing to admire Hone.  Besides, Mrs. Perceval and Hone were old friends, as everyone knew.  Was it not Hone who had escorted her to the East seven years ago when she had left Home to join her elderly husband?  By Jove, was it really seven years since Perceval’s beautiful young wife had taken them all by storm?  She looked a mere girl yet, though she had been three years a widow.  Small and dark and very regal was Nina Perceval, with the hands and feet of a fairy and the carriage of a princess.  He had seen nothing of her during those last three years.  She had been living a life of retirement in the hills.  But now she was going back to England and was visiting her old haunts to bid her friends farewell.  And Teddy Duncombe found her as captivating as ever.  She was more than beautiful.  She was positively dazzling.

What a splendid pair she and Pat would make, Duncombe thought to himself as he watched her.  A man like Major Hone, V.C., ought to find a mate.  Every king should have a queen.

The thought was still in his mind, possibly in his eyes also, when abruptly Mrs. Perceval turned her head and caught him.

“Taking notes, Captain Duncombe?” she asked, with a smile too careless to be malicious.

“Playing providence, Mrs. Perceval,” he answered without embarrassment.

He had never been embarrassed in her presence yet.  She had a happy knack of setting her friends at ease.