Had he seen the face of the woman whom he had just left as it lay at that moment, hardly less pale than the pillow between the fluted mahogany pillars of a huge four-post bed, he would not have understood its meaning. He would never have divined that the dull gleam shining between her half-closed eyelids was simple hatred of himself, that the restless, twitching lips were whispering curses upon his head, that the half-stunned brain was struggling back to circulation and thought for the sole purpose of devising hurt to him. Seymour Michael, ignorant of all this, went peaceably back to his club, where he dressed, dined, and proceeded to pass the evening at a theatre. That night, while he was displaying his diamond studs in the stalls of Drury Lane Theatre, was born into the world--long before his time--a child, Arthur Agar, destined to walk the smoothest paths of life, literally in silk attire; for he grew up to love such things. But the ways of Nature are strange. She is very quiet; patient as death itself. She holds her hand for years--sometimes for a generation--but she strikes at last. She is more cruel than man, or even than woman which is saying much, She is the best friend we have, and the worst foe, for she never forgives an outrage. Nature raised her hand over this puny, whimpering child, Arthur Agar. She never forgot a mother's selfish passion. She forgets nothing. When first he opened his little pink lids upon the world he looked round with a scared wonder in a pair of colourless blue-grey eyes; and that vague look of expectation never left his eyes in later life. It almost seemed as if the infant orbs could see ahead into the future--could discern the lowering hand of outraged Nature. This hand was suspended over the ill-fated, poorly-endowed head for years, then Nature struck--hard. CHAPTER V AFTER NINETEEN YEARS A sharp judgment shall be to them that be in high places. “Yes, dear. I have great news for you to take back to your mother. Jem has got his commission--in a Goorkha regiment!” The lady who spoke leant back in her chair, half turning her head, but not looking entirely round in the direction of the only other occupant of the room--a girl of nineteen. “In a Goorkha regiment, Aunt Anna?” repeated the girl; “what is that? It sounds as if he would have to black his face and wear a turban. It suggests curry and gymkhanas (whatever they may be) and pyjamas and bananas and other pickles. A Goorkha regiment.” There was a faint drop in her tone--on the last three words, which to very keen ears might have signified reproach, but the hearer was not keen--merely cunning, which is quite a different matter. “Yes, dear. They tell me that these Indian regiments are much the best for a young man who is likely to get on. There are so many more chances of promotions and--er--er--distinction.”