She held his glance, faintly smiling at the colour which rushed into his cheeks.
"There are angels and angels," he said evasively.
"But, if I have interpreted your meaning, the angels you write about are heard only by the—shall I offend you if I say—the saints. You are not a saint?"
"Hardly," said Mark.
"But you might be," she murmured; "that is why you interest me"—she paused, sighed, and finished the sentence—"so much. I have never met a saint; I have never met a man who had the makings of a saint in him—till to-day."
Mark knew that she had challenged him.
"Out of the makings of a saint," he said curtly, "the devil fashions the greatest sinner."
"You believe in the devil?"
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
"The devil is 'evil' with a big D before it. I certainly believe in evil."