Pierce Trelawny was possessed of a rather dominant manner. He was not built upon such a large scale as Mostyn, though he was well made and athletic. He was equally at home plodding muddy fields with his gun, riding to hounds, or as a young man about town. He had dark hair, very carefully parted on the left side, thin, refined features, and his dress was always immaculately correct in cut and style. He enjoyed a liberal allowance from his father—a good old country squire—and upon the death of the latter he would inherit a property of very considerable importance. He had no profession, finding life quite full enough without one.
Mostyn made no further objection, but took a long draught from the tall tumbler when it was set before him. The piece of ice that floated on the liquid was cool against his lips, and he liked the touch of it.
And so, a little fresh colour creeping into his cheeks, he told his story, and Pierce listened attentively, with only an occasional interruption, an interruption that usually took the form of some muttered comment by no means flattering to Mr. John Clithero.
"He's an impossible man, your father," Pierce exclaimed when Mostyn had concluded, "And the ghastly part of it is that he is quite sincere, fully convinced that he is in the right and that all the world who disagree with him are in the wrong. In a way he's just like my old uncle with his Tory politics. Your father is stubborn and pig-headed in a different and unpleasant direction; that's all there is between them."
"He killed my mother; he bullied her to death. My brothers are his idea of rectitude. That's the kind of man my father is." Mostyn spoke bitterly, as he felt. Never before in his life had he allowed himself to breathe a word against his father, whatever his own feelings may have been; but it was different now.
He gulped down one or two mouthfuls of his brandy-and-soda, then glanced up at his friend, who appeared lost in thought. "I'm not only worrying about myself, Pierce," he said. "It was Cicely who asked me to see you this evening. You see it is quite possible"—he broke off, hardly knowing how to explain himself.
"I see it is." Pierce drummed his fingers restlessly on the ornate little table before him. "Your father knows I induced you to go to the Derby, and he may forbid Cicely to see me again. I'm inclined to think that that's what is going to happen." He frowned, staring at his tumbler. "Of course, I shan't give her up," he went on, "but things may pan out badly for us. My old dad hates your father, and he was wild when he knew that I had fallen in love with a Clithero. I don't know how he'll take it if there should be any opposition on your father's side. He likes Cicely, so he may tell me to go ahead and marry her, or he may say that it's a good thing for me the engagement is broken off. Cicely is under age, too, and won't be free to do as she likes for another year. It's a devil of a mess: anyway, I shall see Mr. Clithero first thing to-morrow morning and have it out with him," he added with decision; "and I rather think the interview will be a stormy one." He pursed up his lips, thinking that he was perhaps better able than Mostyn to hold his own with the redoubtable John Clithero.
"What about yourself, Mostyn?" he asked, after a pause. "It strikes me I've been selfish, thinking of my own troubles, which may or may not eventuate, while you've got a very real one to face. In some ways it may be for the best, for you had a rotten time at home, and the row was bound to come sooner or later. I don't know how you and Cicely were ever born in the Clithero family," he added sapiently. "You are not like the rest of them, and so I suppose you must have got the blood of some more sporting ancestor in your veins. But what do you mean to do?" he went on; "for I don't suppose you have any idea of making up the quarrel?"
Mostyn shook his head. "No," he replied. "I'm going to fight for myself. Unfortunately I don't think I'm good for much. Of course, I shall have to give up the Bar."
"That's a pity," mused Pierce; "why should you?"