"And it was all because of that wretched thousand pounds, and because of your pride. Oh, Rada! Rada! But it isn't too late," he went on. "Thank God for that. You are not bound to the man." Though he himself could never ask her to be his wife, Mostyn reflected quickly, yet she was not obliged to marry that scamp, that bounder, Jack.
"I'm not sure that he wants to marry me." She sighed wearily. "He's always comparing me to Daisy Simpson—think of that! He says she's so much smarter than I. But it's his father and my father who insist that we shall be married. Old Mr. Treves wants his son to marry a lady, you see, and my father—well, you know it's a question of money with him. Far more has been borrowed than we can ever repay." She flushed as she made the admission.
"I only know that you mustn't marry a man you don't love!" cried Mostyn heatedly. "Surely the money can be found. Castor will bring you in enough if he wins the Derby. Then there's that thousand pounds you paid me: I've never touched the wretched notes. They're still lying at the Grange in my safe—
"No, no, no!" interrupted Rada. "I couldn't accept any money from you; indeed I couldn't, not a single penny. I should never forgive myself, and it would be worse than the other. No," she repeated despairingly, "there is no help for it." She paused, then broke into a laugh that grated upon Mostyn's ears. "What does it matter after all?" She was choking down a sob. "There's no one who cares what becomes of me; it doesn't matter a scrap to anyone if I marry Jack or not——"
Mostyn clenched his fists. "You're wrong, Rada," he said with all the energy he could express. "I care. The fellow's not worthy of you. Besides, he's a bounder and a scamp——"
"Who's a bounder and a scamp?" Mostyn looked up quickly and Rada gave a little cry, for Jack Treves, who had approached unseen by either of them, was standing close by. He took Rada viciously by the arm; then turned scowling upon Mostyn. "Who's a scamp," he repeated, "and what were you two talking about?"
"It was nothing, Jack, nothing!" gasped Rada. "Mr. Clithero and I——"
"I've had enough of Mr. Clithero and you," said Jack roughly. "The sooner you both understand that, the better. I'm sick of Clithero hanging about you and making mischief between us. I'd lay any odds that's what he was doing when I came up." He turned again sharply upon Mostyn. "Who is the scamp you were talking about?" he asked again aggressively.
"You!" replied Mostyn with fine nonchalance. "I was talking about you. I just said what I thought."
Jack Treves took a step forward, his fists clenched. His face was purple and congested. But no blow fell; he had had his experience, and did not wish to repeat it.