wondered whether you meant to content yourself with your present life
always. It is scarcely worthy of you, is it? You were born to other
things than to live the life of a country gentleman. You dabble in
literature, they say, and poke your stick into politics through the pages
of the reviews. Why don't you take your coat off and play the game?"

Mannering was silent for several moments. He was, however, meditating his
own reply less than studying his questioner. Her attitude was amazing to
him. She watched him all the time, frowning.

"You are not usually so tongue-tied," she remarked, irritably. "Have you
nothing to say to me?"

"I am wondering," he said, quietly, "what has given birth to this sudden
interest in my proceedings. What does it matter to you how my days are
spent, or what manner of use I make of them?"

"There was a time--" she began.

"A time irretrievably past," he interrupted, shortly.

"I am not so sure!" she declared, doubtfully.

"What has Borrowdean to do with this?" he asked her, abruptly.

"Borrowdean?"

"Surely! Some one has been putting notions into your head."

"Why take that for granted?" she asked, equably. "The pity of the whole