The peculiar atmosphere of the room, heavy with the newest perfume from the Burlington Arcade, and the scent of exotic flowers, at no time pleasing to him, seemed more than usually oppressive to Mannering as he fidgetted about waiting for the woman whom he had come to see.  He was conscious of a restless longing to open wide the windows, take the flowers from their vases, throw them into the street, and poke out the fire.  The little room, with all its associations, its almost pathetic attempts at refinement, its furniture which reeked of the Tottenham Court Road, was suddenly hateful to him.  He detested his presence there, and its object.  He was already in a state of nervous displeasure when the door opened.

The girl who entered seemed in a sense as ill in accord with such surroundings as himself.  She was plainly dressed in black, her hair brushed back, her complexion pale, her eyes brilliant with a not altogether natural light.  She regarded him with a curious mixture of fear and welcome.  The latter, however, triumphed easily.  She came towards him with out-stretched hand and a delightful smile.

“You;—­so soon again!” she exclaimed.  “Were there—­so many mistakes?”

Mannering’s face softened.  He was half ashamed of his irritation.  He answered her kindly.

“Scarcely any, Hester,” he answered.  “Your typing is always excellent.”

Her anxiety was only half allayed.

“There is nothing else wrong?” she demanded, breathlessly.

“Nothing whatever,” he assured her.  “Where is your mother?”

She sat down.  The light died out of her face.

“Out!” she answered.  “Gone to Brighton for the day.  What do you want with her?”

“Nothing,” he answered, gravely.  “I only wanted to know whether we were likely to be interrupted.”

“She will not be in for some time,” the girl answered.  “She is almost certain to stay down there and dine.”

He nodded.

“Hester,” he asked, “do you know any one—­a man named Borrowdean?  Sir Leslie Borrowdean?”

She shook her head a little doubtfully.

“I have heard mother speak of him,” she said.

“He is a friend of hers, then?”

“She met him at a supper party at the Savoy a few weeks ago,” she answered.

“And since?”

“I believe so!  She talks about him a great deal.  Why do you ask me this?”

“I cannot tell you, Hester,” he said, gravely.  “By the bye, do you think that she is likely to have mentioned my name to him?”

The girl flushed up to her eyebrows.

“I—­I don’t know!  I am sorry,” she faltered.  “You know what mother is.  If any one asked her questions she would be more than likely to answer them.  I do hope that she has not been making mischief.”

He left her anxiety unrelieved.  For some few moments he did not speak at all.  Already he fancied that he could see the whole pitiful little incident—­Borrowdean, diplomatic, genial, persistent, the woman a fool, fashioned to his own making; himself the sacrifice.  Yet the meaning of it all was dark to him.