"Horses," she said showing sharp teeth, "are nothing for a man with your bile--poy-boy--curry comber, smelling of saddle soap--lovely!" She shrivelled up her nose, touching his arm: "Yes, but better things. I will show you--you shall be a gentleman--fine clothes, you will like them, they feel nice." And laughing she turned on one high heel, sitting down. "I like horses, they make people better; you are amusing, intelligent, you will see--" "A lackey!" he returned passionately throwing up his arm, "what is there in this for you, what are you trying to do to me? The family--askance--perhaps--I don't know." He sat down pondering. He was getting used to it, or thought he was, all but his wordy remonstrances. He knew better when thinking of his horses, realizing that when he should have married this small, unpleasant and clever woman, he would know them no more. It was a game between them, which was the shrewder, which would win out? He? A boy of ill breeding, grown from the gutter, fancied by this woman because he had called her ridiculous, or for some other reason that he would never know. This kind of person never tells the truth, and this, more than most things, troubled him. Was he a thing to be played with, debased into something better than he was, than he knew? Partly because he was proud of himself in the costume of a groom, partly because he was timid, he desired to get away, to go back to the stables. He walked up to the mirrors as if about to challenge them, peering in. He knew he would look absurd, and then knew, with shame, that he looked splendidly better than most of the gentlemen that Freda Buckler knew. He hated himself. A man who had grown out of the city's streets, a fine common thing! She saw him looking into the mirrors, one after the other, and drew her mouth down. She got up, walking beside him in the end, between him and them, taking his arm. "You shall enter the army--you shall rise to General, or Lieutenant at least--and there are horses there, and the sound of stirrups--with that physique you will be happy--authority you know," she said shaking her chin, smiling. "Very well, but a common soldier--" "As you like--afterward." "Afterward?" "Very well, a common soldier." He sensed something strange in her voice, a sort of irony and it took the patience out of him: "I have always been common, I could commit crimes, easily, gladly--I'd like to!" She looked away. "That's natural," she said faintly, "it's an instinct all strong men have--" She knew what was troubling him, thwarted instincts, common beautiful instincts that he was being robbed of. He wanted to do something final to prove his lower order; caught himself making faces, idiot faces, and she laughed. "If only your ears stuck out, chin receded," she said, "you might look degenerate, common, but as it is--"