“Hallo!”
The Hon. Geoffrey ranged alongside, examining George's face at leisure.
“Afraid you had a bad race, old chap! I hear you've sold the Ambler to that fellow Guilderstein.”
In George's heart something snapped.
'Already?' he thought. 'The brute's been crowing. And it's that little bounder that my horse—my horse....'
He answered calmly:
“Wanted the money.”
Winlow, who was not lacking in cool discretion, changed the subject.
Late that evening George sat in the Stoics' window overlooking Piccadilly. Before his eyes, shaded by his hand, the hansoms passed, flying East and West, each with the single pale disc of face, or the twin discs of faces close together; and the gentle roar of the town came in, and the cool air refreshed by night. In the light of the lamps the trees of the Green Park stood burnished out of deep shadow where nothing moved; and high over all, the stars and purple sky seemed veiled with golden gauze. Figures without end filed by. Some glanced at the lighted windows and the man in the white shirt-front sitting there. And many thought: 'Wish I were that swell, with nothing to do but step into his father's shoes;' and to many no thought came. But now and then some passer murmured to himself: “Looks lonely sitting there.”
And to those faces gazing up, George's lips were grim, and over them came and went a little bitter smile; but on his forehead he felt still the touch of his horse's muzzle, and his eyes, which none could see, were dark with pain.