"You needn't worry about Rada, Pierce," Mostyn returned, without any loss of temper. "There's not going to be any more love scenes between her and myself. Why, she said she hated me, and we've never met yet without quarrelling." "That's all right, then." Pierce had glanced sharply at his friend's face as if to convince himself that Mostyn was quite serious. The innocent! Why, according to his own tale, Rada had allowed him to kiss her; she had rested for a few moments in his arms before she had torn herself away, crying and protesting, just as Pierce would have expected of her, wayward little creature that she was; and yet Mostyn did not seem to realise that the game was in his own hands! He had taken Rada quite seriously! Such was, indeed, the case, for Mostyn had left Partinborough without seeing Rada again, quite convinced that his company was odious to her. Well, this was all for the best--so argued Pierce to himself, and, as a wise man, with Mostyn's best interest at heart, it would be folly for him to point out any possibility of mistake. After dinner was concluded that evening the three men retired to the club smoking-room, in order seriously to discuss Mostyn's projects for the future, and, of course, Sir Roderick MacPhane was allowed to be spokesman. "Well, Mostyn," he said--he had easily dropped into the way of calling the young man by his Christian name--"since you've lost Castor, I expect you'll have to give up all hopes of doing anything in next year's Derby. You're not likely to find another colt worth the buying--certainly not one that could hold a candle to Castor--or to my Pollux, for the matter of that. But, of course, if I have correctly grasped the situation, the Derby is not a race that you need consider seriously just yet. You have plenty of other chances to win your money, and it is over those that you had better lay yourself out. You've got to earn your legacy first, and then you'll be in the position to direct all your attention to the Derby--that is, if you're still anxious to make good what you said upon my coach at Epsom a week or so back--that you would win the classic race in five years' time." Sir Roderick laughed heartily as he recalled the scene. "I didn't know what to make of you that day, Mostyn," he continued, "but I understand now, that it was Royce who instigated you to that quixotic speech of yours. You were being laughed at. Oh, my dear boy, how you flushed! and how angry you looked with that little spitfire, Rada Armitage!" Mostyn flushed now as if to prove that he had not yet lost the habit. "I didn't understand what Mr. Royce meant either," he replied, "but I just said what he told me. In fact, I said I would win the Derby in five years' time instead of ten, as he suggested in my ear. Of course, I was an arrant fool, and didn't know what I was talking about."