“I know that you can’t go through the world without hurting people,” cried Hardiman.  “Neither you nor any one else, except the limpets.  And you won’t escape hurting Stella Croyle, by abandoning your chances.  Your love-affair will end—­all of that kind do.  And yours will end in a bitter, irretrievable quarrel after you have ruined yourself, and because you have ruined yourself.  You are already on the rack—­make no doubt about it.  Oh, I have seen you twitch and jump with irritation—­how many times on this yacht!—­for trumpery, little, unimportant things she has said and done, which you would never have noticed six months ago; or only noticed to smile at with a pleased indulgence.”

Luttrell’s face coloured.  “Why, that’s true enough,” he said.  He was remembering the afternoon a week ago, when the yacht steamed between the green islands with their bathing stations and chalets, over a tranquil, sunlit sea of the deepest blue.  Rounding a wooded corner towards sunset she came suddenly upon the bridges and the palace and the gardens of Stockholm.  The women of the party were in the saloon.  A rush was made towards it.  They were summoned to this first wonderful view of the city of beauty.  Would they come?  No!  Stella Croyle was in the middle of a game of Russian patience.  She could play that game any day, every day, all day.  This exquisite vision was vouchsafed to her but the once, and she had neglected it with the others.  She had not troubled, even to move so far as the saloon door.  For she had not finished her game.

Luttrell recalled his feeling of scorn; the scorn had grown into indignation; in the end he had made a grievance of her indifference to this first view of the city of Stockholm; a foolish, exasperating grievance, which would rankle, which would not be buried, which sprang to fresh life at each fresh sight of her.  Yes, of a certainty, sooner or later Stella Croyle and he would quarrel, so bitterly that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never bring them again together; and over some utterly unimportant matter like the first view of Stockholm.

“Youth has many privileges over age,” continued Hardiman, “but none greater than the vision, the half-interpreted recurring vision of wider spaces and greater things, towards which you sail on the wind of a great emotion.  Sooner or later, a man loses that vision and then only knows his loss.  Stay here, and you’ll lose it before your time.”

Luttrell looked curiously at his companion, wondering what manner of man he had been in his twenties.  Hardiman answered the look with a laugh.  “Oh, I, too, had my ambitions once.”

Luttrell folded the cablegram which Hardiman had written out and placed it in the breast pocket of his dinner-jacket.

“I will talk to Stella to-night at dinner.  Then, if I decide to send it, I can send it from the hotel over there at the landing-steps before we return to the yacht.”