She spoke simply: 

     “Iram indeed is gone with all his rose,
      And Jamshyd’s seven-ringed cup—­where, no one knows! 
      But still a ruby kindles in the vine,
      And many a garden by the water blows.”

She had the air of one saying good-bye to many pleasant follies which for long had borne her company—­and saying good-bye with a sort of doubt whether that which was in store for her would bring a greater happiness.

Harry Luttrell had no answer, and no very distinct comprehension of her mood.  But he was stirred by it.  For a little while they looked at one another without any words.  The air about them in that still hall vibrated with the emotions of violins.  Joan Whitworth was the first to break the dangerous silence.

“I am afraid that up till now, what I have liked, I have liked tremendously, but I have not always liked it for very long.  You will remember that in pity, won’t you?” she said lightly.

Harry Luttrell was quick to catch her tone.

“I shall remember it with considerable apprehension if I am fortunate enough ever to get into your good books.”  His little speech ended with a gasp.  The letter which he was holding carelessly in his fingers had almost slipped from them into the locked letter box.

Joan crossed to where he stood.

“That’s all right,” she said.  “You can post your letter there.  The box is cleared regularly.”

“No doubt,” Harry Luttrell returned.  “But I am no longer sure that I am going to post it.”

The letter to his friend at the War Office contained an earnest prayer that a peremptory telegram should be sent to him at Rackham Park, at an early hour on the next morning, commanding his return to London.

He looked up at Joan.

“You despise racing, don’t you?”

“I am going to Gatwick to-morrow.”

“You are!” he cried eagerly.

“Of course.”

He stood poising the letter in the palm of his open hand.  The thought of Stella Croyle bade him post it.  The presence of Joan Whitworth, and he was so conscious of her, paralysed his arm.  Some vague sense of the tumult within him passed out from him to her.  An intuition seized upon her that that letter was in some way vital to her, in some way a menace to her.  Any moment he might post it!  Once posted he might let it go.  She drew a little sharp breath.  He was standing there, so still, so quiet and slow in his decision.  It became necessary to her that words should be spoken.  She spoke the first which rose to her lips.

“You are going to stay for the Willoughbys’ ball, aren’t you?”

Harry Luttrell smiled.

“But you despise dancing.”

“I?  I adore it!”

She smiled as she spoke, but she spoke with a queer shyness which took him off his feet.  He slowly tore the letter across and again across and then into little pieces and carried them to the waste-paper basket.