ed. The creature was so obviously
sincere. It was indeed poor Bunning's only possible "leg," his ardour.
He would willingly go to the stake for anything. It was the actual death
and sacrifice that mattered---and Bunning's life was spent in marching,
magnificently and wholeheartedly, to the sacrificial altars and then
discovering that he had simply been asked to tea.

Now it was evident that he wanted something from Olva. His tremulous
eyes bad, as they gazed at Dune across the room, the dumb worship of a
dog adoring its master.

"I hear," he said in that husky voice that always sounded as though
he were just swallowing the last crumbs of a piece of toast, "that you
stopped Cardillac and the others coming round to my rooms the other
night. I can't tell you how I feel about it."

"Rot," said Olva brusquely. "If you were less of an ass they wouldn't
want to come round to your rooms so often."

"I know," said Bunning. "I am an awful ass." He pushed his spectacles up
his nose. "Why did you stop them coming?" he asked.

"Simply," said Olva, "because it seems to me that ten men on to one is a
rotten poor game."

"I don't know," said Bunning, still very husky, "If a man's a fool he
gets rotted. That's natural enough. I've always been rotted all my life.
I used to think it was because people didn't understand me--now I know
that it really is because I am an ass."

Strangely, suddenly, some of the burden that bad been upon Olva now for
so long was lifted. The atmosphere of the room that had lain upon him
so heavily was lighter--and he seemed to feel the gentle withdrawing of
that pursuit that now, ever, night and day, sounded in his ears.

And what, above all, had happened to him? He flung his mind back to a
month ago. With what scorn then would he have glanced at Bunning's ugly
body--with what impatience have listened to his pitiful confessions. Now
he said gently--

"Tell me about yourself."

Bunning gulped and gripped the baggy knees of his trousers.

"I'm very unhappy," he said at last desperately--"very. And if you
hadn't come with me the other night to hear Med-Tetloe--I'm sure I
don't know why you did--I shouldn't have come now---"

"Well, what's the matter?"

Bunning's mouth was full of toast. "It was that night--that service. I
was very worked up and I went round afterwards to speak to him. I could
see, you know, that it hadn't touched you at all. I could see that, and
then when I went round to see him he