He was beginning to be talked about; the sporting papers were taking notice of his name. His face had become a familiar one upon the racecourse. A little later, unless he attained his object either at the Cesarewitch or Cambridgeshire, he knew quite well that he was bound to become an object of general curiosity, a young man who was throwing himself wildly into the track of the spendthrift, the way many had gone before him, those who foolishly dissipated fortunes on the Turf. But then, of course, the world did not know, and, after all, it mattered very little to him what the world should say. Let it be clearly stated here that, apart from his genuine love of sport, Mostyn took no pleasure in the apparently reckless course to which he was pledged. He did not bet. His object was to achieve the task which had been set him as quickly as possible, and then to take up the position of the man who went in for racing reasonably, with discretion and without the inordinate passion of the gambler. That John Clithero was already raging and fuming over his son's growing notoriety, so much Mostyn already knew. He had seen Cicely on several occasions soon after his first return to London from Partinborough. These meetings had been a great pleasure to himself as well as to the girl, as long as they could be continued, but eventually, by some misfortune, John Clithero obtained an inkling of them, and summarily brought them to a conclusion by denying his daughter the liberty which she had till then enjoyed. Poor Cicely! Mostyn thought her sadly changed in those days. She had always been a little shy and nervous in manner, not very strong physically, but now these peculiarities were so markedly increased that Mostyn had asked her anxiously, more than once, if she were sure that she were not ill? She had replied that there was nothing amiss with her health, only that she was not happy. Could it be expected that she should be happy? Prevented from seeing her lover, she was always torturing herself as to what the end of it all would be. Her father was constantly telling her that she should never marry Pierce, that he would see her in her coffin first, and though Pierce had declared to her, taking all his gods to witness that he spoke the truth, that as soon as the year's probation imposed upon him by his father had passed, he would take her away from home and cheerfully set John Clithero at defiance; although over and over again Mostyn, inspired by Pierce himself, would repeat this statement to her, yet she always shook her fair head, nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers, a bright spot of colour rising ominously to the centre of each pale cheek. "Who can say what will happen in a year's time?" she would murmur half under her breath. "Our father is a strong man, Mostyn, and he has always had his way. I feel that he will have his way with me."