Borrowdean was silent. In his heart he was thinking how nearly one of the
most cherished schemes of his life had gone awry.

"I am afraid, then," he said, "that even at the risk of your further
displeasure I have no regrets to offer you."

"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