She had the real secret without a doubt, that "something else," which Sir Charles Hardiman divined but could not interpret.

But she did not understand that Harry Luttrell saw in her, one of the factors, nay the chief of the factors which were converting him into that thing of contempt, the slovenly soldier.
"Thank you," she said to Hillyard with a smile.

She stood aside now from the door.

"It was kind of you to bring me home and talk with me for a little while." But it seems that her recovery of spirits did not last out the night.
Doubts assailed her--Harry Luttrell was beneath other skies with other preoccupations and no message from him had ever come to her.

Even if his love was unchanged at Stockholm, it might not be so now.