Left alone, the two young men ordered whisky and soda, and then they fell to discussing their own more intimate affairs. It may be assumed that the names of Cicely and Rada--this in spite of Pierce's eloquent discourse on worldly wisdom--were repeated many times before the sitting came to an end. For now that Mostyn had come to town there was no reason why he should not see his sister; of course, he could not go to Bryanston Square, but they might easily meet by appointment somewhere else--say at Mostyn's rooms in Jermyn Street. And naturally, since Pierce was forbidden to see Cicely, he was eager to hear all about her from her brother. "I don't see why you should scold me about Rada," Mostyn smiled, when, a little before midnight, he parted from his friend at the corner of Jermyn Street, "you have spoken of nothing but Cicely for the last hour, and I haven't been able to get in a word edgeways." "Cicely and I love each other," returned Pierce thoughtlessly. Mostyn reflected upon those words rather bitterly as he walked slowly down Jermyn Street. Yes, of course, it was different--very different. Pierce and Cicely had been engaged, were presumably engaged still, in spite of the year's probation that had been imposed upon them. At the end of that year, whether further opposition were offered on the part of John Clithero or not, the two young people would come together again, and all would be well between them. How different it was with himself! How extraordinary that he should have fixed his affections upon a girl with whom he could do nothing but quarrel, who had made sport of him in public, and who had declared that she hated him. What a fool he was, and how he wished he could get the vision of Rada--Rada, with her glossy and rebellious hair, and with her piercing black eyes--out of his brain. Rada, who had called herself a devil when he had insisted that she was an angel! Well, it was a good thing that he had so much to occupy his thoughts. Pierce was right, and he must give himself up wholly to the task before him--he must leave Rada to Jack Treves, if it could really be possible that she cared for the trainer's son. Rada was not for him. He sighed heavily as he entered his room and switched on the electric light. A little pile of letters awaited him upon the table, and topmost of all was one addressed in a rather straggling, feminine handwriting; Mostyn, taking it up curiously, perceived that it bore the Partinborough postmark. He knew at once, instinctively, that the letter was from Rada herself--from Rada, whom he was trying his best to forget. CHAPTER XIV. MOSTYN MAKES AN ENEMY.