narrow and
superficial. It was evident, however, that Radford Leicester did
interest her. He was a perfect contrast to the commonplace, corpulent
man of business. Mr. Lowry seemed rather awed by coming into the home of
one who stood so high in the commercial world. He was impressed by the
quiet dignity of the great house. The old-fashioned, costly furniture,
the sombre richness of everything, gave a feeling of repose to which his
own house was a stranger. He wondered why it was so. He had given
instructions to the manager of one of the largest furnishing
establishments in Tottenham Court Road to spare no expense either in
decorating or furnishing the mansion he had built, and although they had
obeyed him he knew that it was different from this. As a consequence he
felt ill at ease, and he stammered when Olive spoke to him. But Radford
Leicester was different. He was perfectly at ease in the great
drawing-room, and placed himself in the right relationship towards every
one immediately. And yet a careful observer could see that he was more
than usually interested. His large eyes flashed when he saw Olive
Castlemaine. He had seen her only once before, and then had not been
introduced to her. If he had given her a thought, it was only to regard
her as the daughter of a very rich City man, and that she was said to be
very religious. Now, however, all was different. While under the
influence of whisky he had made a wager that he would win this woman's
consent to be his wife, and now that they met face to face he had
strange feelings. The first was a feeling of shame. He would not have
admitted it even to himself, but he knew the feeling was in his heart.
For another thing, he doubted himself. Before a word was spoken he knew
that this woman was no shallow creature to be carried away by
high-sounding phrases. Neither would she mistake cynical opinion,
cleverly expressed, for truth. He almost felt afraid of the large brown
eyes which were lifted so fearlessly to his.

When he had entered the house he, like Mr. Lowry, had felt the quiet
dignity and the atmosphere of cultured refinement which prevailed.

"Who has created this," he asked himself, "the father or the daughter?"

"It is not the father," he concluded before John Castlemaine had spoken
a dozen words. It was true that John Castlemaine bore an untarnished
reputation for honour and uprightness, but he was not a cultured man; he
would never give the house its tone. There