So that was why Stella Croyle had proposed herself for the week!  Lady Splay had been a little surprised; so persistently had Stella avoided anything in the shape of a party.  But this time Stella had definitely wished to come, and Millie Splay in her loyalty had not hesitated to welcome her.  But she had been a little curious.  Stella’s visit, indeed, was the third, though the least, of her preoccupations.  The Ball on the Thursday of next week at the Willoughby’s!  Well, Stella was never lacking in tact.  That would arrange itself.  But as Millie Splay looked at her, recognised her beauty, her eager advance to Harry Luttrell, and Harry Luttrell’s embarrassment, she said to herself, for quite other reasons: 

“If I had guessed why she wanted to come, nothing would have persuaded me to have her.”

Millie Splay had more reason to repeat the words before the week was out.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MAGNOLIA FLOWERS

“I hadn’t an idea that we should find her here,” said Hillyard.  “Lady Splay told me so very clearly that Mrs. Croyle always timed her visits to avoid a party.”

Hillyard was a little troubled lest he should be thought by his friend to have concurred in a plot to bring about this meeting.

“I suppose that Hardiman told her you were coming to Rackham Park.  I haven’t seen her until this moment, since I returned.”

“That’s all right, Martin,” Luttrell answered.

The two men were alone in the hall.  The tennis players had changed, and were out upon the court.  Millie Splay had dragged Stella Croyle away with her to play croquet.  Luttrell moved to a writing-table.

“You are going to join the tennis players,” he said.  Hillyard was already dressed for the game, and carried a racket in his hand.  “I must write a letter, then I will come out and watch you.”

“Right,” said Martin, and he left his friend to his letter.

The hall was very still.  A bee came buzzing in at the open window, made a tour of the flower-vases, and flew out again into the sunshine.  From the lawn the cries of the tennis players, the calls of thrush and blackbird and dishwasher, were wafted in on waves of perfume from the roses.  It was very pleasant and restful to Harry Luttrell after the sweat and labour of France.  He sighed as he folded his letter and addressed it to a friend in the War Office.

A letter-box stood upon a table close to the staircase.  He was carrying his letter over to it, when a girl came running lightly down the stairs and halted suddenly a step or two from the bottom.  She stood very still where Stella Croyle had stood a few minutes ago, and like Stella, she looked over the balustrade at Harry Luttrell.  Harry Luttrell had reached the letter-box when he caught sight of her, but he quite forgot to drop his letter through the slit.  He stood transfixed with wonder and perplexity; wonder at her beauty; perplexity as to who she was.