His clothes fitted him badly and were dusty at the knees; his hair was of no colour nor strength whatever, and he bit his nails.

His eyes behind his spectacles were watery and restless, and his linen always looked as though it had been quite clean yesterday and would be quite filthy to-morrow.
And yet Olva, as he looked at him seated awkwardly in a chair, was surprisingly, unexpectedly touched.

The creature was so obviously sincere.

It was indeed poor Bunning's only possible "leg," his ardour.
He would willingly go to the stake for anything.

It was the actual death and sacrifice that mattered---and Bunning's life was spent in marching, magnificently and wholeheartedly, to the sacrificial altars and then discovering that he had simply been asked to tea.
Now it was evident that he wanted something from Olva.