"God bless my soul!" the old gentleman cried, when Pierce explained that Mostyn had never seen a race, and the reason for this neglect. "I did not know that any sensible people held such views nowadays. They even wanted to keep us at work at Westminster on Derby day," he added, with apparent inconsistency, "but I don't look for sense in the House of Commons! That's why I went into Parliament." He meant, of course, that it was his object to convince his fellow-members of their folly. Sir Roderick was returned for one of the divisions of Ulster, and had held his seat, undisputed, for many years. He was a Tory of the old school, staunchly loyal, and to his mind no other views were admissible. Politics, therefore, in the sense of party division, did not exist. He loathed the very word. He would say irritably, "Don't talk to me of politics, I hate 'em--and, besides, there's no such thing." His Irishisms and unconscious word contortions contributed to the amusement of the House as well as to his personal popularity. "Bring young Clithero, Pierce," he said decidedly. "It'll do him good, open his eyes a bit. He's too fine a lad to have his head stuffed with such nonsensical ideas. How old is he, did you say? Twenty-five? Well, he's quite old enough to have a will of his own." All of which was perfectly true, but Sir Roderick, as well as Pierce, overlooked the fact that Mostyn was utterly dependent upon his father. As it happened, John Clithero was absent from London when Pierce conveyed Sir Roderick's invitation to Mostyn, and so he could not be consulted: the hopeless task of asking his approval could not be undertaken. It was open to Mostyn to keep his own counsel: to go to the Derby on the sly--a course that did not commend itself to his straightforward nature--or to make confession when his father returned, which would be two or three days after the Derby had been run. Letter-writing was out of the question, too, for John Clithero was actually on his way home from America, where he had been upon business. He was a banker, head of the old established house of Graves and Clithero, a firm of the highest repute and universally considered as stable as the Bank of England, all the more so because of the high standard of morality demanded of all connected with it, from the partners to the humblest employee. Mostyn did not hesitate long. He wanted to see the Derby, and he was asked to go as the guest of a man who was universally respected. Only rank prejudice could assert harm in this. It was time to make his protest. And so, the evening before the race, he quietly announced his intention to his horrified brothers. "A beastly race-course," sniffed James. "All the riff-raff of London. An encouragement to gambling, drunkenness, and vice." James was a perfect type of the "good young man"; than that no more need be said.