He paused, but Mannering said nothing.  He was still looking out of the window, though his eyes saw nothing of the street below, or the great club buildings opposite.  A scent of roses, lost now and then in the salter fragrance of the night breeze sweeping over the marshes, the magic of a wonderful, white-clad presence, the low words, the sense of a world apart, a world of speechless beauty....  What empty dreams!  A palace built in a poet’s fancy upon a quicksand.

“The Duchess,” Borrowdean continued, “undertook to discover from you what prospects there were, if any, of your return to political life.  She took none of us into her confidence.  We none of us knew what means she meant to employ.  She disappeared.  She communicated with none of us.  We none of us had the least idea what had become of her.  Time went on, and we began to get a little uneasy.  We had a meeting and it was arranged that I should come down and see you.  I came, I saw you, I saw the Duchess!  The situation very soon became clear to me.  Instead of the Duchess converting you, you had very nearly converted the Duchess.”

“I can assure you—­” Mannering began.

“Let me finish,” Borrowdean pleaded.  “I realized the situation at a glance.  Your attitude I was not so much surprised at, but the attitude of the Duchess, I must confess, amazed me.  I came to the conclusion that I had found my way into a forgotten corner of the world, where the lotos flowers still blossomed, and the sooner I was out of it the better.  Now I think that brings us, Mannering, up to the present time.”

Mannering turned from the window, out of which he had been steadfastly gazing.  There was a strained look under his eyes, and little trace of the tan upon his, cheeks.  He had the air of a jaded and a weary man.

“That is all, then,” he remarked.  “I can still catch my train.”

Borrowdean held out his hand.

“No,” he said.  “It is not all.  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.  Something was awakened in him which had lain dormant for many years—­dormant since those old days of battle, of swift attack, of ambushed defence and the clamour of brilliant tongues.  Some of the old light flashed in his eyes.

“Say it then—­quickly!”

“We speak of great things,” Borrowdean continued, “and the catching of a train is a trifle.  My wardrobe and house are at your service.  Don’t hurry me!”

Mannering smiled.

“Go on!” he said.

“The men who count in this world,” Borrowdean declared, calmly lighting a cigarette, “are either thinkers of great thoughts or doers of great deeds.  To the former belong the poets and the sentimentalists; to the latter the statesmen and the soldiers.”