were a hundred things which
suggested the artist's feeling, the scholar's taste. When he saw Olive
Castlemaine, he had no further doubt.

And he felt ashamed. Not that his opinions about women in general were
altered. His experiences had been too bitter. He simply felt that his
conversation in the club in London a week or so before was, to say the
least of it, in bad taste. He did not mean to go back upon his words;
that was not his habit. Besides, the difficulties which presented
themselves made him more determined to carry his plans into effect.

As for Olive, she felt that her friend had estimated this man
rightly--at least in part. He was a striking-looking man; he was a
clever man. The florid merchant by his side looked mean and common
compared with him. The quiet masterfulness of Leicester impressed her.
He suggested a reserve of strength and knowledge which she had never
before felt when brought into contact with other political aspirants.
She knew the general type of Parliamentary candidates. Some had made
money and wanted to have the honour associated with the British House of
Legislature; others, again, were brought up with the idea of adopting
the political life as a career. Neither in the one case nor the other
were they men of note; they would be simply voting machines, even if
they entered the House of Commons--just dull, uninteresting men, who had
never grasped the principles which govern a nation's life.

But this man was different. The strong chin, the well-shaped head, the
large grey eyes, could only mean a man of more than ordinary note.

They sat near each other at dinner, and all the time Radford Leicester
was seeking to weigh Olive Castlemaine in the balance of his own
opinions.

"I hope none of those fellows will let the wager leak out," he said to
himself. "The girl makes me angry. What business has a rich City man's
daughter--a religious woman and a Nonconformist--to look with searching
eyes like that? I must be careful."

"You are an admirer of Tolstoi, Miss Castlemaine," he said, glancing
towards a picture on the wall.

"You say that because of his picture," she replied. "An artist friend of
ours knows the family. He paid a visit to Tolstoi's home, and the Count
consented to sit for his picture. I believe it is very good."

"But you admire him?"

"Why do you think so?"

"Because you allow his picture to hang on your wall."

"You forget that my father would naturally govern such m