ecessary to tell it again, in order to
understand something of the complex character whom I have introduced to
my readers.

The club in which they had met was situated in the region of Pall Mall,
and while not in the strict sense political, it was mostly frequented by
those who were of Leicester's way of thinking. As I have said, it was
not a large club; nevertheless, it provided a limited number of beds.
These young men had come up to listen to a debate at the House of
Commons, and preferred spending the night at the club to going to an
hotel.

"Going to carry this thing through, Leicester?" said Winfield when the
others had gone.

"If only to knock the nonsense out of those prigs," replied the other.

"Marriage is a dear price to pay."

"Then why are fellows so eager for it?"

"I don't know. Men are mostly fools, I suppose."

"Yes; but then it was not a question of marriage. It was only a question
of being accepted as a possible husband."

"The same thing. No man of honour can win a woman's promise to be his
wife and then jilt her."

"A great many do it. Besides, women don't care."

"Don't they? Why do you think so?"

"Because women are women. And it isn't as though this Miss Castlemaine
had fears of being placed on the shelf."

"You are very cool about it, old man."

"Quite the reverse. I am quite excited. Just fancy my scheming to be the
promised husband of a beautiful heiress, a sort of glorified Quakeress,
rich, pious, and high-minded. Winning an election will be a small thing
compared with winning her."

"But surely you'll not try and carry the thing through?"

"Why?"

"Because you don't love her."

Leicester gave a significant whistle.

"Love," he said: "does that come in?"

"It's supposed to."

"It's one of the many illusions which still exist among a certain number
of people. As for its reality----"

He shrugged his shoulders significantly, and then became quiet.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Winfield presently.

"A man's secret thoughts are sacred," replied Leicester mockingly. "Do
you think my pious sentiments are for public utterance?"

Winfield rose and held out his hand.

"Good-night Leicester," he said.

"What, going to bed?"

"Yes, it's past one o'clock."

"Well, what then? You've no wife to regulate your hours."

"No, but I have work to regulate them. A journalist is a slave to the
public."

"Stay half an hour longer."

"What's the good?"

"I can't s