Partly because he was proud of himself in the costume of a groom, partly because he was timid, he desired to get away, to go back to the stables. He walked up to the mirrors as if about to challenge them, peering in. He knew he would look absurd, and then knew, with shame, that he looked splendidly better than most of the gentlemen that Freda Buckler knew. He hated himself. A man who had grown out of the city's streets, a fine common thing!
She saw him looking into the mirrors, one after the other, and drew her mouth down. She got up, walking beside him in the end, between him and them, taking his arm.
"You shall enter the army—you shall rise to General, or Lieutenant at least—and there are horses there, and the sound of stirrups—with that physique you will be happy—authority you know," she said shaking her chin, smiling.
"Very well, but a common soldier—"
"As you like—afterward."
"Afterward?"
"Very well, a common soldier."
He sensed something strange in her voice, a sort of irony and it took the patience out of him:
"I have always been common, I could commit crimes, easily, gladly—I'd like to!"
She looked away. "That's natural," she said faintly, "it's an instinct all strong men have—"