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Updated: May 26, 2025
There was a somewhat unusual alertness in Borrowdean's manner as he passed out from the little house in Sloane Gardens and summoned a passing hansom. He drove to the corner of Hyde Park, and dismissing the cab strolled along the broad walk. The many acquaintances whom he passed and repassed he greeted with a certain amount of abstraction. All the time he kept his eyes upon the road.
I took it for granted somehow that it was the Duchess who had discovered our friend Borrowdean's little scheme and sent that telegram. Why didn't you sign it?" She shrugged her shoulders. "It was the Duchess who made him chuck it up," she said. "I could never have made him do that. I was an idiot to let Parkins stay in England at all." "I always understood," he said, "that he was dead."
So carefully modulated had been Borrowdean's voice that no word of his had reached beyond their own immediate circle. It was as though a silent tableau were being played out between the three, and Mannering, to whom repression had become a habit, gave little indication of anything he might have felt.
I should like to find you down stairs when I come out. You understand?" "Perfectly, sir," the man answered, and withdrew. Mannering had no idea whose house he was in. The address Borrowdean's servant had given him had been simply 81, Grosvenor Square. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a little annoyance as he followed the servant up the broad stairs.
The man with whom I made a fool of myself has given me his word of honour." "Sir Leslie Borrowdean's word of honour!" Mannering remarked, with slow scorn. "Do you know the man, I wonder?" "I know that he wishes to be your friend, and not your enemy," she said. "He chooses his friends for what they are worth to him," Mannering answered. "It is all a matter of self-interest.
She drank wine to keep the colour in her cheeks, and she told herself that the pain at her heart was nothing. Nevertheless, some words of Borrowdean's were mocking her all the while. "We are all slaves," he answered. "The folly of it all is when we stop to think. Then we realize it." Their conversation was like a strangled thing. Neither made any serious effort to re-establish it.
He could see Berenice reading the morning paper in the little grey courtyard, with the pigeons flying above her head and the sunlight streaming across the flags. He could hear Borrowdean's sneer, could see Lord Redford's shrug of the shoulders. There is little sympathy in the world for the man who dares to change his mind. There was a knock at the door, and his servant entered with a tray.
This explanation I have made for your sake, Mannering, and it has been a truthful and full one. Now it is my turn. I have a few words to say to you on my own account." Mannering paused. There was a note of something unusual in Borrowdean's voice, a portent of things behind. Mannering involuntarily straightened himself.
The dessert was on the table, and they were alone. Berenice was looking thoughtful. "Tell me," he begged, "exactly what that wrinkled forehead means?" "I was wondering," she said, "whether Sir Leslie was right, when he said that you had too much conscience ever to be a great politician." "It mirrors Borrowdean's outlook upon politics precisely," he remarked.
Mannering was puzzled, but his eyes followed Borrowdean's slight gesture. Berenice, who at the sound of his voice had suddenly abandoned her conversation and risen to her feet, was within a few feet of him. A sudden light swept into Mannering's face. "You!" he exclaimed softly. Her hands went out towards him. Borrowdean, with an almost imperceptible movement, checked his advance.
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