"Poor devil, he won't have a dog's chance!" the baronet concluded; and he watched approvingly what appeared to him to be Luttrell's endeavour to avoid joining battle on this unfavourable field. He could only trust feebly in that and in the strength of the "something else," the secret reason he was never to know.
It was about half-way through dinner when Stella Croyle, who had directed many a furtive, anxious glance to the averted face of her companion, attacked directly.
"What is the matter with you to-night?" she asked, interrupting him in the midst of a rattle of futilities. "Why should you recite to me from the guide-book about the University of Upsala?"
"It appears to be most interesting, and quaint," replied Luttrell hastily.
"Then we might hire a motor-car and run out there to luncheon. To-morrow! Just you and I."
"No." Harry Luttrell exclaimed suddenly and Stella Croyle drew back. Her face clouded.