"Neither counts," he interrupted. "I am a politician."

She sat quite still, looking away from him. The peaceful noises from the
village street found their way into the room. A few cows were making
their leisurely mid-day journey towards the pasturage, a baker's cart
came rattling round the corner. The west wind was rustling in the elms,
bending the shrubs upon the lawn almost to the ground. She watched them
idly, already a little shrivelled and tarnished with their endless
struggle for life.

"I do not wish to be melodramatic," she said, slowly, "but you are
forcing me into a corner. You know that I am rich. You know the people
with whom I have influence. I want to purchase Lawrence Mannering's
immunity from your schemes. Can you name no price which I could pay? You
and I know one another fairly well. You are an egoist, pure and simple.
Politics are nothing to you save a personal affair. You play the game of
life in the first person singular. Let me pay his quittance."

Borrowdean regarded her thoughtfully.

"You are a strange woman," he said. "In a few months' time, when you are
back in the thick of it all, you will be as anxious to have him there as
we are. You will not be able to understand how you could ever have wished
differently. This is rank sentiment, you know, which you have been
talking. Mannering here is a wasted power. His life is an unnatural one."

"He is happy," she objected.

"How do you know? Will he be as happy, I wonder, when you have gone, when