"I shall never own race-horses," he said humbly. "I've got no money for such things. I was only saying what I felt, not because I hoped ever to do it really."
Captain Armitage's hand dropped from Mostyn's arm. His jaw fell and he muttered something in his beard. He was annoyed at having been deceived; he had taken Mostyn for a young man of wealth and position, or he would not have wasted his breath upon him.
"Then it was bluff?" he said curtly.
"Call it what you like." Mostyn was not prepared to argue the point. "It's certainly true that I have no intention whatever of going in for racing."
Once again Captain Armitage muttered in his beard, and Mostyn was quite assured that the remark was not complimentary to himself. They walked on a few paces almost in silence, then suddenly the captain turned his head, and muttering, "There's a friend of mine; so long!" waved his hand airily and was hidden in the crowd that thronged the street. Mostyn stood still, and after a moment or so, he saw the unmistakable figure of his military friend disappearing, unaccompanied, under the flaming portals of a public-house.
Mostyn found himself standing alone close to the brilliantly-lit entrance of a well-known music hall, through the doors of which a crowd was pouring out, the entertainment being just concluded. He had never been inside a music hall in his life, and, indeed, the whole aspect of the streets at this time of night was new to him. Tired as he was he watched the scene with interest. Here was Life, as it was understood by most young men of his age.
Over-dressed men and under-dressed women passed across the pavement to the cabs, broughams, or motors which were summoned for them by the liveried messengers. Mostyn, as he stood crowded against the shuttered window of a shop, could see the bare shoulders, insufficiently covered by rich opera cloaks, the glint of jewels, the flushed faces; his nostrils received the vague impression of perfume; his ears were pierced by shrill whistling, by the roar of traffic, by the shouting and laughter, by all the discord—or was it harmony?—of a London night. And ceaselessly the restless crowd of the street surged to and fro: all manner of man and woman—the satisfied and the hungry, the well-clad and the ragged, the joyful and the sad.
It was a different aspect of life from that which he had studied earlier in the day, and it was another emotion that stirred him as he watched. For was it not well that a man should see all sides, that he should judge for himself? The policy of repression, that which he had known all his life long—John Clithero's policy—now, more than ever, Mostyn saw the fallacy of it. The thing forbidden has a fascination which blinds the eyes to its danger; wilful ignorance may engender excess. Mostyn knew what it was to struggle with temptation, but his sense of honour and duty had held him in check. A weaker nature might easily have succumbed. As he watched, he reflected upon the attraction which this scene had had for his imagination; but he was not so sure that he felt the same about it now.
By the curb stood a woman clad in the Salvation Army dress. She spoke to many, but was rudely repulsed. A stout young man, whose face Mostyn had not seen, was assisting a smartly-dressed woman into the hansom which had been summoned for him. The Salvation Army girl approached him. She lifted her arms and extended them straight out to the right and left, finally bringing them forward and pressing them together as if she were striving against a great weight. In that gesture she seemed to concentrate upon one man alone all the veiled sin, the careless folly of the scene.
"Man," she cried appealingly, "behold thy handiwork!"