When Guy came down from the University it was with the reputation of being one of its wildest spirits. Great things were predicted of him. Others might excel him in individual efforts in the field and the schools, but none could excel him in fearlessness of demeanour. Besides, Hora's education had supplied him with a serene belief in himself, which had been communicated to those with whom he came in contact. He had been the leader of a set, the model for the freshman, the autocrat of his time. Like most autocrats, he cherished a profound contempt for those who bowed down before him. He was to them as his father was to him, something so much greater than they that their tribute became merely a thing of no account. He understood why his father had no affection for him. How could anyone love the thing beneath; the moth could love the star, but the star could not love the moth—and——
Guy awoke from the reverie into which he had been betrayed by his father's emotion on hearing the name of Captain Marven mentioned. He was quite alone. Myra had left the room after vainly trying to engage his attention. His hand unconsciously sought his pocket, and, when he drew it out, he held in his palm the snuff-box he had reserved for himself from the booty he had brought home on the previous night. He gazed earnestly at the miniature set in the lid.
"So Captain Marven is father's enemy," he muttered, "and this—this must be a portrait of Captain Marven's daughter."
His face grew troubled. His brow puckered. He thrust the box back into his pocket and rose impatiently from his seat.
"Bah!" he said, "what says the Commandatore? Man is trained for war, and woman for the relaxation of the warrior; all else is folly."
CHAPTER IV
THE REFLECTIONS OF LYNTON HORA
There was undoubted reason why the name of Marven should move Lynton Hora to emotion. It swept him back over the thirty years which bridged him from his youth. He would not have answered to the name of Hora in those days; the days when he and Richard Marven—"Gay" Marven—had been subalterns together in the same cavalry regiment. But the name he had borne then was buried and forgotten long since, and the young man who had borne it was dead to the knowledge of the world, though his virtues and his sins, his memories and hatreds—most certainly his hatreds—lived actively in the recluse connoisseur and antiquarian, Lynton Hora.
He had had good reason for burying his earlier self—an all-sufficing excuse for blotting out his existence from his regimental companions, from the friends of his youth, from the parents who had wept over his downfall perhaps even more than they had mourned the presumed death which had followed his punishment.
The name of Marven had brought vividly before his mind a picture of the bitterest moment of his life. Never could the memory of that moment lose the poignancy of its sting. The hollow square in the barrack yard, the epaulets he had once worn on his shoulder lying on the ground, the look of scorn on the faces of his brother officers and reflected on the faces of the men who had been till then beneath him, for the convicted thief, he saw these things clearly at the mention of Captain Marven's name.
He had always held that Marven was responsible for his dishonour, Marven who had everything which he, Hora, had desired and which fate had denied him. On the day he had first met him envy had entered into his heart. The contented smile on Marven's face, the expression which declared that everything is the best possible in the best possible world, had irritated him. Hora had not shown his irritation! Early in his youth he had learned to control the expression of his feelings. But companionship had deepened the irritation day by day. Gay Marven was the most popular man in the mess, Hora the least. Marven was wealthy, a credit to a smart cavalry regiment; Hora's allowance barely sufficed to meet the bare necessary expenditure, and so he was debarred from indulging in the extravagances which his comrade affected.