Of course, there was much overstraining at honour in all this, as well as a lamentable ignorance of the feminine nature; but then that was Mostyn all over. He did not--in this case, it was almost would not--take into account the possibility, the inherent probability, of a woman changing her mind. He was quite aware that Rada's moods were as variable as those of the proverbial April day, and yet he insisted upon taking her literally, with the natural result that his attitude was sorely misunderstood. For Rada had come to the conclusion that his feelings towards her had undergone a change--that he no longer cared--and she was miserable in consequence. Mostyn had been aware of this fact for some little time past; he was now only too conscious of all that he had left undone. He would have asked nothing better than to go to Rada and speak out his love; it was no longer stubbornness and a straining at honour that hindered him. It was something more potent than that. For, now that all might have been well, another factor in the case had arisen, another opponent had sprung into being, and poor Mostyn was beginning to realise that he was beaten all along the line. Rada was further away from him than ever just when she seemed to be most near. Ruin stared him in the face--irrevocable ruin. He was a failure--Anthony Royce's millions would never be his. In another month's time he would be plunged back into poverty--he would have nothing left, nothing save the Grange, which he would not be able to keep up. All the ready money which had been handed over to him had been expended--he had even the possibility of debts to face. For himself he did not care--he had had his sporting chance and fate had been against him. The world would say that there was another young spendthrift gone under; his father and his brothers, not knowing the truth, would have some excuse for pointing the finger of scorn at him; but these things troubled him little. He would fight for himself, as he had meant to fight before he had known of Royce's bequest. If it were not for Rada--Rada whom he loved so passionately! How could he ask her to share his poverty? The thing was impossible--he had realised the impossibility of it for some weeks past--just as the truth of her love for him was filtering into his brain. How tragically ironical it all was! "Asmodeus won't win the Guineas," he muttered to himself, disconsolately enough, since there was none present before whom he must keep up the farce of cheerfulness. "And as for the filly, she is quite hopeless. So what remains? Only the Derby, and that I should have to fight out against Rada. I don't know that I would win it from her, even if I could. But I can't, so there's an end of it. There's an end to everything, so far as I can see--to fortune, to ambition, to love--yes, jolly well an end to everything. That's what I see in the future."