“You do not offer me the conventional wishes,” she remarked, presently.

“They go—­from me to you—­as a matter of course,” he answered.  “To tell you the truth, I never thought of Mannering, for many reasons, as a marrying man.”

“You will have to readjust your views of him,” she said, quietly, “for I think that we shall be married very soon.”

Borrowdean was a little white, and his teeth had come together.  Whatever happened, he told himself, fiercely, this must never be.  He felt his breast-pocket mechanically.  Yes, the letter was there.  Dare he risk it?  She was a proud woman, she would be unforgiving if once she believed.  But supposing she found him out?  He temporized.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said.  “Do you mind putting me down here?”

“Why?  You seemed in no hurry a few minutes ago.”

“The world,” he said, “was a different place then.”

She looked at him searchingly.

“You had better tell me all about it,” she remarked.  “You have something on your mind, something which you are half disposed to tell me, a little more than half, I think.  Go on.”

He looked at her as one might look at the magician who has achieved the apparently impossible.

“You are wonderful,” he said.  “Yes, I will tell you my dilemma, if you like.  I have just come from Sloane Gardens!”

Her face changed instantly.  It was as though a mask had been dropped over it.  Her eyes were fixed, her features expressionless.

“Well?” she said, simply.

He drew a letter from his pocket.

“You may as well see it yourself,” he remarked.  “For reasons which you may doubtless understand, I have always kept on good terms with Mrs. Phillimore, and she was to have dined with me and some other friends to-morrow night.  Here is a note which I had from her yesterday.  Will you read it?”

Berenice held it between her finger tips.  There were only a few lines, and she read them at a glance.

  Sloane Gardens,
  Tuesday.

  My dear Sir Leslie,

I am so sorry, but I must scratch for to-morrow night.  L. is going North on some mysterious expedition, and I am afraid that he will want me to go with him.  In fact, he has already said so.  Ask me again some time, won’t you?

  Yours ever,
  Blanche Phillimore.

Berenice folded up the letter and returned it.

“It is a little extraordinary,” she remarked.  “I am much obliged to you for showing me this.  If you do not mind, we will talk of something else.  Look, there is Clara Mannering alone under the trees.  Go and talk to her.”

Berenice touched the checkstring, and Borrowdean was forced to depart.  She smiled upon him graciously enough, but she spoke not another word about Mannering.  Borrowdean was obliged to leave her without knowing whether he had lost or gained the trick.