“That delightful man has been to see me again,” she exclaimed.  “I could scarcely believe it when Mary brought me his card.  By the bye, where is Mary?  I want her to try to take that stain out of my pink silk skirt.  I shall have to wear it to-night.”

“I will ring for her directly,” the girl answered.  “So that was Sir Leslie Borrowdean, mother!  Why did he come to see you again so soon?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” Mrs. Phillimore announced, “but I thought it was very sweet of him.  It seems all the more remarkable when one considers the sort of man he is.  He’s very ambitious, you know, and devoted to politics.”

“Where did you meet him first?” Hester asked.

“It was at the Metropole at Bexhill,” Mrs. Phillimore answered.  “We motored down there one day, and Lena Roberts told me that she heard him inquiring who I was directly we came into the room.  He joined our party at luncheon.  Billy knew him slightly, so I made him go over and ask him.”

Hester nodded, and seemed to be absorbed in some trifling defect of one of the keys of her typewriter.

“Does he still ask you many questions about Mr. Mannering, mother?” she asked, quietly.

“About Mr. Mannering!” Mrs. Phillimore repeated, with raised eyebrows.  “Why, he scarcely ever mentions his name.”

She took up a small mirror from the table by her side, and critically touched her hair.

“About Mr. Mannering, indeed,” she repeated.  “Why do you ask me such a question?”

The girl hesitated.

“Do you really want to know, mother?” she asked.

“Of course!”

“When Mr. Mannering was here last,” Hester said, “he asked me whether Sir Leslie Borrowdean was a friend of yours.  I fancy that they are political acquaintances, but I don’t think that they are on very good terms.”

Mrs. Phillimore laid down the mirror and yawned.

“Well, there’s nothing very strange about that,” she declared.  “Lawrence isn’t the sort to get on with many people, especially since he went and buried himself in the country.  How pale you are looking, child.  Why don’t you go and take a walk, instead of hammering away at that old typewriter?  Any one would think that you had to do it for a living!”

“I prefer to earn my own living,” the girl answered, “and I am not in the least tired.  Tell me, are you going to see Sir Leslie Borrowdean again, mother?”

The woman on the couch smoothed her hair once more, with a smile of gratification.

“Sir Leslie has asked me to join a small party of friends for dinner at the Carlton this evening,” she announced.  “Why on earth are you looking at me like that, child?  You’re always grumbling that my friends are a fast lot, and don’t suit you.  You can’t say anything against Sir Leslie.”

The girl had risen to her feet.  The trouble in her face was manifest.

“Mother,” she said, slowly, “I wish that you were not going.  I wish that you would have nothing whatever to do with Sir Leslie Borrowdean.”