“I do not desire your regrets,” she answered, scornfully.  “You did what it suited you to do, and I presume you are satisfied.  As for the rest, I can assure you that the relations between Mr. Mannering and myself are such that the balance of your political apple-cart is not likely to be disturbed.  Now let us talk of something else.  I have said all that I have to say on this matter—­”

Sir Leslie was not entirely satisfied with the result of his afternoon call.  He walked slowly from Grosvenor Square to a small house in Sloane Gardens, in front of which a well-appointed victoria was waiting.  He looked around at the well-filled window-boxes, thick with geraniums and marguerites, at the coachman’s new livery, at the evidences of luxury which met him the moment the door was opened, and his lips parted in a faint, unpleasant smile.

“Poor Mannering,” he murmured to himself.  “What a millstone!”

Mrs. Phillimore was at home.  She would certainly see Sir Leslie, the trim parlour-maid thought, with a smile.  She left him alone in a flower-scented drawing-room, crowded with rococo furniture and many knick-knacks, where he waited more or less impatiently for nearly twenty minutes.  Then Mrs. Phillimore swept into the room, elaborately gowned for her drive in the park, dispersing perfumes in all directions and bestowing a dazzling smile upon him.

“I felt very much inclined not to see you at all,” she declared.  “How dared you keep away from me all this time?  You haven’t been near me since I moved in here.  What do you think of my little house?”

“Charming!” he declared.

“Every one likes it,” she remarked.  “Such a time I had choosing the furniture.  Hester wouldn’t help with a single thing.  You know that she has left me?”

“I understood that she had gone to Mr. Mannering as secretary,” he answered.  “She has done typing for him for some time, hasn’t she?”

Mrs. Phillimore nodded.

“Worships him, the little fool!” she remarked.  “I must admit I detest clever men.  You are all so dull, and such scheming brutes, too.”

Borrowdean smiled.  A certain rough-and-ready humour about this woman always appealed to him.  He looked around.

“You seem to have done very nicely with that little offering,” he said.

“Oh, ready money goes a long way,” she declared, carelessly.

“And when it is spent?” he asked.  “Five thousand pounds is not an inexhaustible sum.”

“By the time it is spent,” she answered, “your party will be in, and I suppose you will make Lawrence something.”

Borrowdean regarded the woman thoughtfully.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he asked, “that the time is likely to come when Mannering might want his money for himself?  He might want to marry, for instance.”

She laughed mirthlessly, but without a shade of uneasiness.

“You don’t know Lawrence,” she declared, scornfully.  “He’d never do that whilst I was alive.”