Martin Hillyard had spoken to him of Joan Whitworth.  By the delicious oval of her face, the deep blue of her eyes, the wealth of rippling bright hair, the soft bloom of colour on her cheeks, and her slim, boyish figure—­the girl should rightly be she.  But it couldn’t be!  No, it couldn’t!  This girl’s lips were parted in a whimsical friendly smile; her eyes danced; she was buoyant with joy singing at her heart.  Besides—­besides——!  Luttrell looked at her clothes.  She wore a little white frock of chiffon and lace, as simple as could be, but even to a man’s eyes it was that simplicity which is the last word of a good dressmaker.  A huge rose of blue and silver at her waist was its only touch of colour.  With it she wore a white, broad-brimmed hat of straw with a great blue bow and a few narrow streamers of blue ribbon floating jauntily, white stockings and shoes, cross-gartered round her slender ankles with shining ribbons.  Was it she?  Was it not?  Was Martin Hillyard crazy or the whole world upside down?

“You must be Colonel Luttrell,” his gracious vision exclaimed, with every appearance of surprise.

“I am,” replied Luttrell.  He was playing with his letter, half slipping it in, and then drawing it back from the box, and quite unaware of what he was doing.

“We had better introduce ourselves, I think.  I am Joan Whitworth.”

She held out her hand to him over the balustrade.  He had but to reach up and take it.  It was a cool hand, and a cordial one.

“Martin Hillyard has talked to me about you,” he said.

“I like him,” she replied.  “He’s a dear.”

“He told me enough to make me frightened at the prospect of meeting you.”

Joan leaned over the banister.

“But now that we have met, you aren’t really frightened, are you?” she asked in so wistful a voice, and with a look so deeply pleading in her big blue eyes that no young man could have withstood her.

Harry Luttrell laughed.

“I am not.  I am not a bit frightened.  In fact I am almost bold enough to ask you a question.”

“Yes, Colonel Luttrell?”

The invitation was clear enough.  But the Colonel was suddenly aware of his audacity and faltered.

“Oh, do ask me, Colonel Luttrell!” she pleaded.  The old-fashioned would have condemned Joan Whitworth as a minx at this moment, but would have softened the condemnation with a smile forced from them by her winning grace.

“Well, I will,” replied Luttrell, and with great solemnity he asked, “How is Linda Spavinsky?”

Joan ran down the remaining steps, and dropped into a chair.  A peal of laughter, silvery and clear, and joyous rang out from her mouth.

“Oh, she’s not at all well to-day.  I believe she’s going.  Her health was never very stable.”

Then her mood changed altogether.  The laughter died away, the very look of it faded from her face.  She stood up and faced Harry Luttrell.  In the depths of her eyes there appeared a sudden gravity, a certain wistfulness, almost a regret.