A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly loving youth. Sybil tossed her head angrily and walked away offended. "Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish asked her. Sybil's lips drooped. "I don't think so. I've lost such a lot. You play too high for me." "Pooh! What matter. Jimmie doesn't mind. He's full of money now after the race." "I've lost such a lot," Sybil repeated, forgetting that she was angry with Oliver Knox, turning to him in her trouble, missing the meaning in the woman's words. "You ought not to play with that crowd. Mrs Cavendish is the best player in London--the quickest to read a face, I'll bet. It's madness, folly." Another foolish speech. Sybil went off to change. This drama was being played quickly. The girl was stirred, flattered; awakened nature made her a lute too easily played on by a practised hand. She shrank from decision, from promising to marry a soldier of slender fortune, and she knew that decision was near. That night, after dinner, her young lover followed her, took her, almost against her will, away from the others to the library, with its rows of richly-bound volumes, its sombre magnificence. "Sybil"--the boy's face was white. He was too moved for eloquence. "Sybil, you know I love you. I can't stand by and see that other fellow follow you, as he has followed others. Making you--you remarkable. Sybil, I'm not rich, but I love you, marry me--I'll make you happy." And--she was not sure--for a moment she felt his arms close round her and dreamt of peace and sheltered love, then again she was not sure, she said so faltering. Give her time ... she muttered. "Sybil, I can't wait. It's life or death to me. Give the fellow up. Give him back his horse. I'll hire you one. Go, tell him now. It maddens me to see you ride the brute." Give back the horse, and to-morrow she was to ride the perfect chestnut at the meet. Next day they were going back to London, they were dining with Jimmie, motoring with him. "I'll tell you"--Sybil faltered--"later--I don't know." An anxious lover is always a fool. He would have no delay, he must know. It was a choice--a challenge to fate. If she took him it must be altogether. She was too young to understand. Sybil was tortured by indecision. How, owing eighty pounds, could she go to her friend and say, I will not ride your horse--I will not dine with you. How could she hurt him? "Sybil, I thought you cared," a hoarse voice roused her. "I believe I do. Oh, Oliver, give me time." "No!" he was going away, leaving next morning. "I cannot share you, Sybil. Oh, friendship. Don't prate of that to me, but, if you want me, send for me. If I can ever help, write or wire. I'll go on loving you as long as I'm alive. As you don't care enough I can go." He flung out bruised and hurt. Was it chance or design which had made Jimmie Gore Helmsley talk that day of the worries of a soldier's life?