For the next few days following the night of the dinner at John Castlemaine's house, a change seemed to have come over Radford Leicester. He became less hopeless, and he did not drink so freely. It might seem as though an evening spent in the society of a good woman had a beneficial effect upon him. He did not take any further steps to carry out his avowed intention, but when he spoke of women it was with less bitterness.

Both Sprague and Purvis noticed this, and both wondered what it portended. Could it be that Leicester meant to reform, or did it mean that he was simply playing a part, in order to win the woman he had boasted he could win?

Nevertheless he was moody, and seemed unhappy. He met these men sometimes at the club, but spoke little. Moreover, in public he was very abstemious, so much so that even the waiter noticed it.

"Is he turning over a new leaf?" asked Purvis of Sprague.

"If he is, he is not playing the game," replied the other.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it was understood that he should win her on the understanding that he was an atheist and a drunkard."

"But surely you don't object to his reforming?"

"No, of course I should be only too glad if he did, only in that case all the point of our discussion would be gone."

They were, during this conversation, sitting in the club where we first met them, and just as Purvis was about to reply to the other Leicester entered the room. He looked even paler than usual, and the dark rings around his eyes suggested pain either physical or mental. No sooner did he see them than he walked towards them, as if glad of an opportunity of companionship.

"How are you, Leicester?"

"I have a beastly headache," he replied.

Sprague and Purvis looked at each other significantly, a look which Leicester noticed.

"No," he said, "don't draw your conclusions. I have not been drinking. It's that confounded constituency."

"Why, anything happened there?"

"No—nothing of importance. It's only the old game. This man has to be written to, and the other man has to have a certain statement explained. I'd give up the whole thing for twopence."

"Where would your career be then, Leicester?"

"Hang the career," he said moodily.

"It's all very well to say that, old man, but a great deal depends on it."

"What?"

"Well, your future—your future in Parliament, and your future matrimonial arrangements."

He gave the two men an angry look.

"Surely that's my affair," he said.

"Sorry to contradict you, old man; but it is our affair too. That hundred pounds, you know."

Leicester gave expression to a sentiment which was more forcible than elegant.

Sprague looked at him eagerly. Ever since the night when we first met these men, he had cherished anger in his heart towards Leicester. He felt that this man despised him, and he was glad of the opportunity of giving him one, as he termed it, "on his own account."

"Our gallant warrior is afraid to fight," he said with a sneer.

Leicester started as though he were stung. The look on Sprague's face maddened him. For Leicester was in a nervous condition that night. His abstention from spirits was telling on him terribly. Every fibre of his being was crying out for whisky, and every nerve seemed on edge.

"What do you mean, Sprague?" he demanded.

"I mean that our gallant warrior is pulling down his flag," said Sprague. "He has found out that the citadel cannot be easily taken, and he's ready to give up without striking a blow."

Leicester looked on the ground moodily. In his heart of hearts he was ashamed of the whole business, but he felt he would rather do anything than confess it before these fellows.

"I hear he's turned teetotaller, too," went on Sprague, who seemed anxious to pay off old scores. "Who knows? we may see Leicester posing as a temperance advocate yet."

Leicester rose to his feet as if unable to contain himself. To be sneered at by a man like Sprague was too much. He seemed about to give vent to an insulting remark, then as if thinking better of it checked himself. He rung a bell which stood on the table.

A waiter came in answer to his summons.

"Whisky," he said.

"A large or a small one, sir?"

"Bring—bring a bottle," he said savagely.

"I say, Leicester, don't do that!" said Purvis.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't start drinking again."

Again Leicester was almost overwhelmed with anger. How dare these fellows seek to interfere with him!

"May I ask my dear Moody and Sankey when the control of my actions came within your province?" he said, with a strong effort at self-control.

"Don't take it in that way, old man. I'm sure you are ashamed of the other business, and——"

"What business?"

"You know what business. You can't go on with it. You would never have thought of it if you hadn't been drinking too much; and really, I was awfully glad when I saw that you were giving it up."

Leicester did not reply, but instead looked eagerly towards the waiter, who was coming towards him.

He poured out a large portion of whisky into a glass, and then, having added a small quantity of soda-water, he took a long draught.

"There," he said, when he set down the glass empty, "that for your pious platitudes, my friends."

The action seemed to restore something of his equanimity, and it also brought back the old bravado which had characterised him.

"The brave warrior appears to require Dutch courage," remarked Sprague, who seemed bent on arousing all that was evil in him.

"Better that than none at all," remarked Leicester quietly. "And let me tell you this, my friend, you can tell your mother that I shall not assist you in your drawing-room meetings. By the way, what line are you on now? Is it Hottentot children, anti-smoking, or the conversion of the Jews?"

The colour had risen to his cheeks, the old light had come back to his eyes.

"As if I cared for your Dorcas meeting standards of morality," he went on. "What, you thought the poor sinner was repenting, eh? And you had all your texts, and your rag-tags of advice to pour into my willing ears. Tell me, Sprague, have you selected one of your women speakers to speak a word in season? You know how partial I am to public women."

"You tried to give up the drink for a whole week for one," retorted Sprague angrily.

"Did I, now? Well, then, I'll make up for my past misdeeds. I repent of my backsliding, my dear pastor, and I return to my spiritual comforter."

He poured out more whisky, still with a steady hand, and looked at them with a mocking smile.

"Have faith, Sprague," he said; "have faith, as your favourite women speakers say so eloquently at those dear drawing-room meetings which you love so much, 'there's nothing done without faith.'"

Purvis, who was the better fellow of the two, looked really distressed. He was ashamed of what had taken place, and had sincerely hoped that Leicester had given up the wild scheme upon which they had embarked.

"I am sorry for all this, Leicester," he said, "and I confess frankly I hoped——"

"That I had been brought to the stool of repentance, that I was ashamed of my misdeeds, and that I was going to give up the game. No, my friends, I stand by what I said, and what is more, I am going to carry it through. I am not converted to your professed belief in the nobility of women, and as for being ashamed—tah, as though I cared for your copybook morality!"

Neither of the men spoke in reply. They were almost afraid of the man. He spoke quietly, and yet the strange light in his eyes showed how much moved he was.

"And what is more, dear Moody and Sankey," he went on, "I'll play the game honestly. I'll hide none of my sentiments. I'll win this woman under no false colours. Why should I? There is no need. What did I say? Let women have their selfish ambition gratified, and nothing else matters."

"Come now, Leicester, you know it is not so. I should think your visit to Mr. Castlemaine's would at least have caused you to drop that rubbish."

He had by this time finished his second glass of whisky, and while as on the former occasion it showed no effects on his perfect articulation, and while he spoke very quietly, it doubtless made him say and do what without its influence he would never think of doing.

"I say, Purvis," he said, lying back comfortably in his chair, and lighting a cigar, "did I hide my sentiments at Mr. Castlemaine's? Did I pose as a moral reformer? And what is more, did you spare me? Did you not, with great and loyal friendship, give both Mr. and Miss Castlemaine your views concerning me? Did you not tell Miss Castlemaine of my reputation at Oxford, and of my terrible opinions? Did you not tell Mr. Castlemaine that I was an atheist, that I had laughed at Christian morality, and that I was a hard drinker? Come now, deny it if you can."

"You know what you said to me," said Purvis, looking on the floor like a man ashamed.

"Of course I did, my dear fellow. Don't look so miserable about it. Well, I did my worst, and you did your worst. Now look at that!"

He threw a letter to Purvis as he spoke.

"Am I to read it?"

"Else why did I give it you?"

Purvis opened the letter and read it. It was an invitation to Mr. Castlemaine's to dinner.

"Are you going?" asked Purvis.

"Of course I am. Do you think I am going to let such an opportunity slip? Oh, you need not be afraid to show it to Sprague. It is not an invitation to a drawing-room meeting, it is only to a dinner."

"Well, that means nothing," said Sprague.

"No? I think it proves my statements to the hilt. That invitation would not have come from John Castlemaine without his daughter's consent—perhaps it was at her instigation. And yet she knows that I am—well—all you've described me to be. I am an atheist, I've thrown copybook morals overboard, I am a hard drinker. But what then? I conform to the conventions; no man has ever seen me drunk; but more than all that, I am mentioned as one who is going to have a brilliant career. Hence the invitation."

"An invitation to dinner means nothing," urged Sprague.

"Hence the invitation, and hence the future justification of my statements," he persisted. "Good-night, my friends, I am sorry I cannot stay longer."

He walked out of the room quite gaily. A casual passer-by, if he had met him, would at that moment have thought of him as a happy man.

And yet, although Sprague and Purvis did not know it, Leicester had entered the smoking-room of the club that night with a strong inclination to refuse the invitation to John Castlemaine's house. He had been ashamed of making a woman the subject of a wager, and more, he had for several days been fighting against the craving for alcohol. He realised more than any man the mastery which it had gained over him, and he knew that unless he conquered the habit, he would soon be a slave to it, body and soul. An evening spent in the society of a good woman, moreover, had aroused his latent manhood, and he felt that he could not degrade himself by standing by the challenge he had made. He knew as well as they that it was made under the influence of whisky, and that no man of honour should stand by it.

During the days he had been fighting his craving for drink, the thought of what he had done became more and more repugnant, and when he entered the room where Sprague and Purvis were, he intended telling them that nothing more must be said about it.

It seemed, however, that the fates were against him. He was in a nervous, irritable mood, caused by his abstention from the poison which had become almost a necessity to him, and the significant glances of the two men maddened him. Had they met him in the right spirit, it is possible that the affair, which did not reflect credit upon any of them, might have been dismissed as an idle joke. As we have seen, however, they had taunted him, they had aroused him to anger; these men whom he regarded as his inferiors had assumed an air of superiority, and this in the present state of his nerves was more than he could bear. He had ordered whisky, and after that his good resolutions went by the board. Radford Leicester would have died rather than have confessed himself beaten. Thus do great issues often rest upon unimportant events.

After he had gone a silence fell between the two young men for some time.

"I wish we hadn't been such fools, Sprague," said Purvis presently.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we are as bad as he is, perhaps worse. We at least were sober."

"Yes, I know; but who would have thought that he would stand by his guns?"

"We know what he is. I believe if we had been wise to-night he might have been led to give it up. But now nothing will move him."

"Well, it may teach Miss Castlemaine a lesson," said Sprague, whose pride had not yet recovered from the wound which her refusal had made; "but there—it's all right. It'll never come to anything. For that matter, if anything serious came of it, I would tell her the whole history of the joke."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Why?"

"Because you dare not. Because she would despise us all to our last day, because she would never speak to us again. You know the kind of girl she is."

Sprague was silent.

"Is it a dinner-party which Mr. Castlemaine is giving, or is Leicester invited in a friendly way, I wonder?" he said presently.

"Evidently a friendly invitation, seeing Mr. Castlemaine has written the letter with his own hand."

"Was it true that you told Mr. Castlemaine the truth about him?"

Purvis looked uncomfortable.

"Evidently he did not believe it," he replied, after hesitating a few seconds. "You know Leicester's way. When you look into those wonderful eyes of his you cannot tell whether he's joking or whether he's in earnest. Besides, he's such a handsome, fascinating chap, and I saw that Mr. Castlemaine took to him. Then, although it is perfectly true that he talked in his usual mocking way during a part of the evening, he altered his tone before he left. Evidently he found Miss Castlemaine to be a congenial companion, for he grew quite earnest in his conversation, and you know that when he is earnest, he is nothing short of brilliant. In fact, he showed us two Radford Leicesters that night: we had Leicester the cynic, but we had also Leicester the scholar, the brilliant conversationalist, the man who has read everything worth reading, and seen everything worth the seeing. No one could help noticing how Miss Castlemaine admired him."

"And you believe he'll carry this thing through now?"

"I'm sure he'll propose to her. Didn't you see his eyes? And you know what a fellow he is. When once he sets his mind upon a thing he'll go straight on. Ordinary considerations do not daunt him. Refusals will only make him more determined. Besides, you wounded his pride to-night, and—well, I wish we had not been such fools. For my own part, I am ashamed of the whole business."

"I tell you we need not fear. We know what Miss Castlemaine is. She is not the kind of woman to be carried away by a handsome presence and clever speeches. It isn't as though this would be her first offer."

"No, but she admires strength. Do you know her favourite characters in history?"

"No."

"Well, just think. The men she admires most are Luther, Richelieu, Cromwell, and Napoleon."

"A curious combination."

"Yes, but each one of them had the same characteristics. All of them were strong men, men who dared great things, played for great stakes."

"Well, Leicester has not dared great things."

"But he's capable of great things. Why, you know as well as I, that when he's in a room, every one else is put in the shade, that is if he cares to exert himself. I tell you Leicester could be a great man, if he only had the motive power."

"But we need have no fear. When did you say he was invited to Mr. Castlemaine's?"

"Next Thursday week."

"I wish we were invited too," said Sprague.

"Who knows?—perhaps we may be."

As a matter of fact they were, and when the night of the dinner came round they both found themselves sitting not only in close proximity to Leicester, but also to Miss Olive Castlemaine. For this was one of those rare occasions when John Castlemaine gave a dinner-party.

Radford Leicester sat beside Olive Castlemaine, and all admitted that they were the most striking-looking couple in the room. Had they met in some brilliant society throng, they would have been just as noteworthy. Moreover, this was one of those nights when Radford Leicester found himself in a mood to exert himself, while Olive Castlemaine, as hostess, naturally desired to be agreeable.

For the first part of the dinner but little of note was said. The conversation passed from one topic to another. Motor-cars, a continental exhibition, the latest new novel of note, and the political situation were each discussed in their turn. Society scandal was not indulged in, and the sayings and doings of actresses and music-hall singers were not to be mentioned. Thus, when one comes to think about it, the conversation was of a considerably higher standard than that often indulged in at society functions. But then it must be remembered that John Castlemaine was a middle-class man, who professed the Christian religion, and the atmosphere of his house was not favourable to "smart" talk.

Indeed, if the truth must be told, Radford Leicester grew rather restive under it. He noticed, too, that both Sprague and Purvis were watching him closely, and listening to all he had to say. He instinctively knew of what they were thinking, and more, he felt certain that if his host and hostess were aware of the circumstances which led to his being their guest that night, a servant would have shown him to the door. Moreover, although he was not afraid of the outward effect of taking much wine at dinner, he was obliged to be abstemious. Olive Castlemaine had heard of his weakness, and would doubtless take note of the number of times the waiter filled his glass.

Presently, when discussing politics, someone remarked on the amount of self-sacrifice which had been practised by Members of Parliament, especially by those who held a prominent position in the country.

"Mr. Leicester does not believe in that," remarked Purvis. "He is of opinion that it is all great fun."

At this all eyes were turned towards Leicester.

"You are mistaken," he replied, "I believe the self-sacrifice of these men is very great."

"Mr. Leicester has surely altered his opinion of late," remarked Sprague. "Behold, a Saul among the prophets!"

"Not in the slightest, I assure you," replied Leicester. "I believe that hosts of these men sacrifice themselves a great deal. If you ask me who they sacrifice themselves for, I should say—themselves."

"Then the candidate for Taviton sacrifices his leisure for——"

"The candidate for Taviton, exactly. My dear Sprague, you have hit off the situation with your usual felicity."

"I don't think Mr. Leicester is fair to himself," remarked Olive Castlemaine, looking questioningly into Leicester's face.

"I assure you I am," replied Leicester. "Indeed, I am inclined to think that the people who are called self-sacrificing are very undesirable people to associate with."

"Come, come now, Leicester, you don't believe that," said Purvis.

"I assure you I do most sincerely," replied Leicester quietly. "The other day I was at a house where there were six people present, and they were waiting to play some game where only four could take part. Well, four of them were self-sacrificing people, and wanted to give way to the others. Two were selfish, and desired to engage in the game. Well, neither of these four would give way in their unselfishness—with the result that the game was never played at all. The evening was spoiled by unselfish people."

He looked so serious as he spoke that Olive Castlemaine laughed outright.

"Many an evening which might have been pleasant," went on Leicester, "has been spoiled for me by these unselfish people making themselves and everybody else uncomfortable, under the pretence that they were trying to make us comfortable. Of this I am sure, if people were really and truly honest, and were openly selfish, then each man would seek his own enjoyment and find it."

"And be miserable when he had found it," remarked Olive quietly.

"I assure you that is a fallacy," said Leicester, "else why is it that the so-called moral and unselfish people are the most disagreeable to deal with? This I can say truly, the most morose and unhappy people I have ever met are these moral reformers."

"Then what would you suggest?"

"A good healthy paganism. I know this is an awful heresy, but can any reasonable man say that the English, with all their religious institutions, are as happy as the old Greeks were?"

"We can't accuse Leicester of hiding his light under a bushel," said Sprague to Purvis, after dinner, during which Leicester continued to talk in the same strain.

"No, but I have yet to see that Miss Castlemaine is repelled by him."

"That's because she believes he is playing a part."

"You believe that she thinks he's been joking?"

"Exactly."

But they were wrong. Olive Castlemaine believed that there was an undertone of sincerity in all Leicester said, and she was sorry for him. During the evening she saw a great deal of him, and although she did not feel quite comfortable in his presence, his personality fascinated her. Indeed, he became quite an enigma to her. Sometimes, when the cynical side of his nature was uppermost, she felt almost sorry that he had been invited to the house, but when he changed and spoke earnestly on matters which interested her, she forgot her feelings of aversion.

Indeed, when all the guests had left the house that night, Olive Castlemaine reflected what a fine man Radford Leicester would be if the sad, hopeless spirit were cast out of him, and he could be inspired by high and noble motives.

"I wonder what would do it?" she asked herself again and again.