e," he
said. "I have called this afternoon on the chance of seeing you, because
I could do no other."

She gave him a quick glance; but quick as it was, it revealed the fact
that Leicester's mocking, cynical manner was gone. The flash of his
eyes, the stern, set features showed that he was deadly in earnest.

"You frighten me," she said, with a laugh. "I hope you have brought me
no bad news."

"I have not the slightest idea how you will regard it," he said, "but I
have come to ask you a favour."

"What is it?" she said, still smiling. "Is it to give a subscription to
some charity which you have been in the habit of condemning?"

"No," he replied, "I have come to ask you to listen to me patiently for
a few minutes."

She froze somewhat at this. Perhaps the look in his eyes made her feel
somewhat uncomfortable. She realised that it was somewhat unusual for a
comparative stranger to come in such a way.

"I am afraid I am a poor listener," she said, "and, what is more, I am
at a loss to conceive how I can advantage you by doing so."

"Still, you will hear me out, won't you?"

"I have no choice, have I?" she said, almost nervously.

"I want to be frankly egotistic," he said. "I want to speak about a
worthless subject--myself."

She felt her heart fluttering; but she spoke composedly.

"Then I think we had better sit down," she said.

She suited the action to the word, but Leicester continued standing. He
laid his hat and gloves on a chair, but stood before her, his body
almost rigid.

"I have seldom been earnest during the last few years," he said, "but
when I have been, I have always wanted to stand up. I am in earnest
now."

Olive Castlemaine did not reply, but she sat watching him. There was no
longer a tone of mockery in his voice, and his pale face and earnest
eyes gave no suggestion of the cynical faithlessness which characterised
him at their first meeting. She felt as though she would like to refuse
to listen to him, but his presence forbade her. He was strong and
masterful, even in his appeal.

"Miss Castlemaine," he said, "I imagine that you have heard but little
that is good of me. You have been told that I am an atheist, a man
without faith in man, or in God, and what you have heard is in the main
true. Not altogether, but in the main. I am not what is called a good
man, indeed I cannot claim to have been even an admirer of goodness.
Certainly I have believed in very little of it."

Olive i