shall not be afraid to take up the gauntlet. But I must be quite sure."

"You puzzle me a little," she admitted. "Has any one written more
convincingly than you? Arguments which are founded upon logic and
statistics must yield truth, and you have set it down in black and
white."

"On the other hand," he said, "my unlearned but eloquent friend dismissed
all statistics, all the science of argument and deduction, with the wave
of a not too scrupulously clean hand. 'Figures,' he said, 'are dead
things. They are the playthings of the charlatan politician, who, by a
sort of mental sleight of hand, can make them perform the most wonderful
antics. If you desire the truth, seek it from live things. If you desire
really to call yourself the champion of the people, come and see for
yourself how they are faring. Figures will not feed them, nor statistics
keep them from the great despair. Come and let me show you the sinews of
the country, whether they are sound or rotten. You cannot see them
through your library walls. It is only the echo of their voice which you
hear so far off. If you would really be the people's man, come and learn
something of the people from their own lips.' This is what my friend said
to me."

"And who," she asked, "was this prophet who came to you and talked like
this?"

"A retired bookmaker," he answered. "I will tell you of our meeting."

She listened gravely. After he had finished there was a short silence.
The dessert was on the table, and they were alone. Berenice was looking
thoughtful.

"Tell me," he begged, "exactly what that wrinkled forehead means?"

"I was wondering," she said, "whether Sir Leslie was right, when he said
that you had too much conscience ever to be a great politician."

"It mirrors Borrowdean's outlook upon politics precisely," he remarked.

She smiled at him with a sudden radiance. She had risen to her feet, and
with a quick, graceful movement leaned over him. This new womanliness
which he had found so irresistible was alight once more in her face. Her
eyes sought his fondly, she touched his lips with hers. The perfume of
her clothes, the touch of her hair upon his cheek, were like a drug. He
had no more words.

"You may have one peach and one glass of the Prince's Burgundy, and then
you must come and look for me," she said. "We have wasted too much time
talking of other things. You haven't even told me yet what I have a right
to hear, you know. I want to be told that y