Mrs. Durlacher told her.  Ah, but she made the telling interesting.  A man who owns such a place in the country as Apsley Manor, yet prefers to live the life of the Bohemian in town, shunning society, reaping none of the benefits that should naturally accrue to him from such a position, can quite easily be surrounded with a halo of interest if his narrative be placed in the hands of a skilful raconteur.  Mrs. Durlacher spared no pains in the telling of her story.  Led it up slowly through its various stages to the crisis, the crisis as she made it.  He owned Apsley Manor, not they!  It was his property, capable of repurchase at any moment!  And—­she leant back in her chair, covering her face with her hands as though the blow were an unbearable tragedy to her—­he had said that he would take the place back.  Five thousand pounds was nothing to him.  He could find it at a moment’s notice.  So would any one, when such a place as Apsley was in the balance.

“You can imagine,” she concluded—­bearing it bravely with the resignation of martyrdom—­“what a catastrophe that’ll be to us.”

“Poor Dolly; I never knew of that.  I always thought the place was yours.  You always said so.”

“Yes; why not?  With every right.  It is ours—­till he repurchases.  You see he’s beginning to nurse ambition now.  I suppose there’s no doubt that he’ll come up to the top of the ladder.  I always knew he’d make a splendid barrister if he once caught hold of the ambition.  Now, of course, he’ll find that the possession of Apsley’s of value to him.  He’ll have to entertain.  A Bohemian can’t entertain any one but a Bohemian.  Then, I suppose, he’ll marry—­get a house in Town like we have—­and use Apsley, as we’ve done, for his friends.”

“But, my dear Dolly—­what on earth will you do?”

“Do?” Mrs. Durlacher rose with a sigh.  “Well—­there’s prayer and fasting; but there’ll be considerably more fasting than prayer, I should imagine.  I assure you, I do pray that he doesn’t make a fool of himself and marry some woman out of the bottomless pit of Bohemia.”

“Well, I should think so.  It ’ud be an awful pity, wouldn’t it?”

“A considerable pity—­yes.  Here he is.”  She turned quickly to her friend, but her voice was cleverly pitched on a casual note.  “Don’t say anything to him about Apsley,” she remarked.  “He never admits to possession of it—­that’s one of his peculiarities.  I don’t suppose he will until he planks down his five thousand pounds.  He has what he calls a legal sense of justice.  Makes sure of a statement before he delivers it.  You’ll never catch him out.  That’s the Scotch blood on the mater’s side of the family.  I should think it’s saved him out of many a difficulty.”