It was with mingled feelings that Mostyn, having read and re-read the letter, folded it up and thrust it in his pocket. The one point that stood out clearly in his mind was that Rada did not really love Jack Treves, although she had allowed herself to drift into a sort of engagement with him. Mostyn could not flatter himself, from anything she said in her letter, that she had any deeper feeling towards himself; but, after all, there was no saying what might happen in the course of the next year. It was very clear that, till after Castor had run in the Derby, Rada did not want to be bothered--that was her own expression--with questions of love from him or from anyone else. Well, no doubt it was all for the best. He, himself, had quite enough to occupy his attention till after the next Derby was raced and won; in the meanwhile, it was an excellent arrangement that he and Rada should be good friends, and he would willingly undertake, as Jack Treves had evidently undertaken, not to "bother" her with any further suggestion of his affection. Ultimately, if she should care for him better than for Jack--his lip curled derisively at the mere idea of the comparison--well, there was very little doubt that Captain Armitage would not mind who married his daughter as long as his debts were paid. "I shall be something like a millionaire by then, I hope," Mostyn muttered to himself, "so Master Jack, if it's a question of money, I think I shall stand a better chance than you." With which reflection and a satisfied smile upon his lips, Mostyn retired to bed. "Well, all I can say is I hope you'll stick to the arrangement of being just friends," Pierce grumbled when, the next day, Mostyn told him of the letter he had received, and how he had answered it--answered it, perhaps, with a little more enthusiasm than Pierce altogether cared for, explaining that he was looking forward to the day when he could return to Partinborough Grange. This, however, could not be for a week or so, Mostyn had added, at any rate not till after Goodwood. But the Cesarewitch was bound to bring him to Newmarket. "Just the race that's going to mean so much for us," Pierce commented with a sigh. "Don't be afraid, old man," laughed Mostyn, who was happier that day than Pierce had seen him since his arrival in London--a bad omen, the latter argued. "I give you my word that I'll put the Cesarewitch before everything else. Rada doesn't want to be bothered, and I won't bother her." And with this promise Pierce was constrained to be content. The days passed, and, as they had anticipated, their first essay--for the Royal Hunt Cup--met with most indifferent success; they had, indeed, been quite confident of failure long before the day of the race.