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Hone was trotting quietly down the field, laughing all over his handsome, sunburnt face at the cheers that greeted him. He dismounted close to Mrs. Perceval, and was instantly seized by Duncombe and thumped upon the back with all the force of his friend’s goodwill.

“Pat, old fellow, you’re the finest sportsman in the Indian Empire. Those chaps haven’t been beaten for years.”

Hone laughed easily and swung himself free. “They’ve got some knowing little brutes of ponies, by the powers,” he said. “They slip about like minnows. The Ace of Trumps was furious. Did you hear him squeal?”

He turned with the words to his own pony and kissed the velvet nose that was rubbing against his arm.

“And a shame it is to make him carry a lively five tons,” he murmured in his caressing Irish brogue.

For Hone was a giant as well as a hero and he carried his inches, as he bore his honours, like a man.

Raising his head, he encountered Mrs. Perceval’s direct look. She bowed to him with that regal air of hers that for all its graciousness yet managed to impart a sense of remoteness to the man she thus honoured.

“I have been admiring your luck, Major Hone,” she said. “I am told you are always lucky.”

He smiled courteously.

“Sure, Mrs. Perceval, you can hardly expect me to plead guilty to that.”

“Anyway, you deserved your luck, Pat,” declared Duncombe. “You played superbly.”

“Major Hone excels in all games, I believe,” said Mrs. Perceval. “He seems to possess the secret of success.”

She spoke with obvious indifference; yet an odd look flashed across Hone’s brown face at the words. He almost winced.

But he was quick to reply. “The secret of success,” he said, “is to know how to make the best of a beating.”

He was still smiling as he spoke. He met Mrs. Perceval’s eyes with baffling good-humour.

“You speak from experience, of course?” she said. “You have proved it?”

“Faith, that is another story,” laughed Hone, hitching his pony’s bridle on his arm. “We live and learn, Mrs. Perceval. I have learnt it.”

And with that he bowed and passed on, every inch a soldier and to his finger-tips a gentleman.

II

“Hullo, Pat!”

Teddy Duncombe, airily clad in pyjamas, stood a moment on the verandah to peer in upon his major, then stepped into the room with the assurance of one who had never yet found himself unwelcome.

“Hullo, my son!” responded Hone, who, clad still more airily, was exercising his great muscles with dumb-bells before plunging into his morning tub.

Duncombe seated himself to watch the operations with eyes of keen appreciation.

“By Jove,” he said admiringly at length, “you are a mighty specimen! I believe you’ll live for ever.”

“Not on this plaguey little planet, let us trust!” said Hone, speaking through his teeth by reason of his exertions.

“You ought to marry,” said Duncombe, still intently observant. “Giants like you have no right to remain single in these degenerate days.”

“Faith!” scoffed Hone. “It’s an age of feather-weights, and I’m out of date entirely.”

He thumped down his dumb-bells, and stood up with arms outstretched. He saw the open admiration in his friend’s eyes, and laughed at it.

But Duncombe remained serious.

“Why don’t you get married, Pat?” he said.

Hone’s arms slowly dropped. His brown face sobered. But the next instant he smiled again.

“Find the woman, Teddy!” he said lightly.

“I’ve found her,” said Teddy unexpectedly.

“The deuce you have!” said Hone. “Sure, and it’s truly grateful I am! Is she young, my son, and lovely?”

“She is the loveliest woman I know,” said Teddy Duncombe, with all sincerity.

“Faith!” laughed the Irishman. “But that’s heartfelt! Why don’t you enter for the prize yourself?”

“I’m going to marry little Lucy Fabian as soon as she will have me,” explained Duncombe. “We settled that ages ago, almost as soon as she came out. It’s not a formal engagement even yet, but she has promised to bear it in mind. We had a talk last night, and–I believe I haven’t much longer to wait.”