"Just because father happens to be away," remarked Charles; "I suppose that's your idea of honour, Mostyn." Charles was always talking about honour. He was unhealthily stout, had pasty cheeks and long yellow hair that lacked vitality. "I think Mostyn's quite right, and I wish I was going too," proclaimed Cicely the rebellious. And so the wrangle proceeded. It was distinctly uncomfortable, but Mostyn was quite determined to abide by his decision. Nor had he changed his mind when the next day came. Owing to the behaviour of Captain Armitage it had not at first been particularly pleasant for Mostyn upon the coach, but Pierce and Mr. Royce had come to the rescue, the former engaging the attention of the captain, while the latter took the boy in hand and explained certain things that he ought to know about racing. It was all done with such infinite tact that Mostyn was soon at his ease, able to enjoy the fund of anecdote with which Anthony Royce enlivened the journey, as well as the scenes by the way, the ever-changing panorama, of which he had read, but which he had never expected to see. He spoke little, but his eyes glittered with excitement. To him it was as though he was being carried into a new world, a world with which his soul was in sympathy, but the gates of which had always been closed. And yet it was not so strange to him as he had expected: perhaps in his dreams he had gazed through the gates, or even travelled down that very road upon a visionary coach that threaded its way proudly amid the heterogeneous traffic. So, despite his ignorance and inexperience, he felt in his element; he was a sportsman by instinct, so he told himself, and all these years he had been crushing down his true nature. Well, it was not too late to repair the mischief: for now he knew--he knew. Anthony Royce watched him with kindly appreciative eyes. There were moments, though Mostyn was far too absorbed to notice this, when his broad forehead wrinkled into a frown as he gazed into the young man's face; it was a peculiar enigmatical frown, suggestive of an effort to think back into the past, to pierce the veil of years. Mostyn could hold himself in no longer when the coach had taken up its place under the hill, and when Sir Roderick, by his little speech, had discharged his obligation towards his guests. A few moments of bustle followed. Captain Armitage, champagne bottle in hand, was filling a glass for Lord Caldershot, who was stooping down from his place upon the coach to take it; Rada was intently studying a race-card and comparing it with a little pink paper--a paper issued by some tipster or other; most of the other guests had already descended and mingled with the crowd. Among these was Pierce, who had hurried off after his uncle in the direction of the Paddock.