young, just a little over twenty-five, with all the world’s hope and glory and golden promise opening before him like a flower. Never before had he known the crude definitiveness of personal sorrow, personal grief, despair. He realized fully what it would mean to him if he obeyed his father. He would be kicked out of his regiment, his club. Society, from Aspley House to Lambeth Palace, from the Horse Guards’ Tilt-Yard to Rotten Row, from the Oval to New market Heath, would turn its back on him. He would be a pariah.
All that he understood. But it was when he thought of his brother that the harrow drove most deeply over his soul. He had always been fond of him; had always admired him for his skill with cricket bat and polo mallet; had looked up to him with boyish hero worship.
And now …
“I’ll do it, father,” he said coldly; and left the room
Outside, he met his brother. The latter tried to stop him.
“Hector—listen …”
The younger man shook his head.
“I shall bear the blame because”—he said it half proudly, half sneeringly—“there is our old tradition. But—I do not want to see you again—ever, ever! Neither you, nor father—nor England!”
“But, Hector! You don’t for a moment believe that I would cheat at cards, do you?”
“If you didn’t, who did?” came the other’s terse counter question, and he rushed past his brother, down
