“What have I done,” Mannering murmured, “that I should be sent back to kindergarten?  Platitudes such as this bore me.  Let me catch my train.”

“In a moment.  To all my arguments and appeals, to all my entreaties to you to realize yourself, to do your duty to us, to history and to posterity, you have replied in one manner only.  You have spoken from the mushroom pedestal of the sentimentalist.  Not a single word that has fallen from your lips has rung true.  You have spoken as though your eyes were blind all the time to the letters of fire which truth has spelled out before you.  Any further argument with you is useless, because you are not honest.  You conceal your true position, and you adopt a false defence.  Therefore, I relinquish my task.  You can go and grow your roses, and think your poetry, and call it life if you will.  But before you go I should like you to know that I, at least, am not deceived.  I do not believe in you, Mannering.  I ask you a question, and I challenge you to answer it.  What is your true reason for making a scrap-heap of your career?”

“Are you my friend,” Mannering asked, quietly, “that you wish to pry behind the curtain of my life?  If I have other reasons they concern myself alone.”

Borrowdean shook his head.  He had scored, but he took care to show no sign of triumph.

“The issue is too great,” he said, “to be tried by the ordinary rules which govern social life.  Will you presume that I am your friend, and let us consider the whole matter afresh together?”

“I will not,” Mannering answered.  “But I will do this.  I will answer your question.  There is another reason which makes my reappearance in public life impossible.  Not even your subtlety, Borrowdean, could remove it.  I do not even wish it removed.  I mean to live my own life, and not to be pitchforked back into politics to suit the convenience of a few adventurous office-seekers, and the Duchess of Lenchester!”

“Mannering!”

But Mannering had gone.

* * * * *

Borrowdean felt that this was a trying day.  After a battle with Mannering he was face to face with an angry woman, to whose presence an imperious little note had just summoned him.  Berenice was dressed for a royal dinner party, and she had only a few minutes to spare.  Nevertheless she contrived to make them very unpleasant ones for Borrowdean.

“The affair was entirely an accident,” he pleaded.

“It was nothing of the sort,” she answered, bluntly.  “I know you too well for that.  Your bringing him here without warning was an unwarrantable interference with my affairs.”

Borrowdean could hold his own with men, but Berenice in her own room, a wonderful little paradise of soft colourings and luxury so perfectly chosen that it was rather felt than seen; Berenice, in her marvellous gown, with the necklace upon her bosom and the tiara flashing in her dark hair, was an overwhelming opponent.  Borrowdean was helpless.  He could not understand the attack itself.  He failed altogether to appreciate its tenour.