dford
looked thoughtfully out of the window across the park.

"I was always afraid of this," Borrowdean said, gloomily. "There is a
leaven of madness in the man."

Lord Redford shrugged his shoulders.

"Genius or madness," he remarked. "We may yet see him a modern Rienzi
carried into power on the shoulders of the people. Such a man might
become anything. As a matter of fact, I think that he will go back into
his study. He has the brain to fashion wonderful thoughts, and the lips
to fire them into life. But I doubt his adaptability. I cannot imagine
him ever becoming a real and effective force."

Borrowdean, who was bitterly disappointed, smoked furiously.

"We shall see," he said. "If Mannering is not for us, I think that I can
at least promise that he does no harm on the other side."

Lord Redford turned away from the window. He eyed Borrowdean curiously.

"It was you," he remarked, "who brought Mannering back into public life.
You had a certain reward for it, and you would have had a much greater
one if things had gone our way. But I want you to remember this.
Mannering is best left alone--now, for the present. You understand me?"

Borrowdean shrugged his shoulders. There was a good deal too much
sentiment in politics.

* * * * *

Mannering and Berenice came together for a few moments on the terrace
after dinner. He was not so completely engrossed in his own affairs as
to fail to notice her lack of colour and a certain weariness of manner,
which had kept her more silent than usual during the whole evening.

"Well?" she said.

"There is nothing definite," he answered. "You see, the question of
tariff reform is not before the House at present, and Redford does not
require me to resign my seat. But of course it will come to that sooner
or later."

She leaned over the grey balustrade. With her it was a moment of
weakness. She was suddenly conscious of the fact that she was no longer
a young woman. The time when she might hope to find in life the actual
flavour and joy of passionate living was nearing the end. And a little
while ago they had seemed so near! The pity of it stirred up a certain
sense of rebellion in her heart. She was still a beautiful woman. She
knew very well the arts by which men are enslaved. Why should she not try
them upon him--this man who loved her, who seemed willing to sacrifice
both their lives to a piece of senseless quixoticism? Her fingers touched