what she wants!"  
They lunched very well amidst a crowd of cosmopolitans and lingered over their coffee. Their conversation had been of books and nothing but books, but towards the end Marcia once more spoke of herself.  
"You see, James," she told him, "I have the feeling that if Reginald really does succeed in freeing the estates from their mortgages, he will have any quantity of new interests in life. He will probably be lord-lieutenant of the county, and open up the whole of Mandeleys. Then his town life would of course be quite different. I shall feel--can't you appreciate that?--as though my task with him had come naturally and gracefully to an end. We have both fulfilled our obligations to one another. If he can give me his hand and let me go--well, I should like it."  
She looked so very desirable as she smiled at him that Borden almost groaned. She patted his hand and changed the conversation.  
"Very soon," she continued, "I am going to undertake a painful duty. I am going down to Mandeleys."  
"Not with him?"  
She shook her head.  
"My father is back in England," she explained. "He has come back from America and is living in the cottage of many lawsuits. I must go down and see him."  
"Has the boy returned, too?" he enquired.  
"I have heard nothing about him," Marcia replied. "He was very delicate when he was young, and I am not even sure whether he is alive. My father probably doesn't want to see me in the least, but I feel I ought to go."  
"You wouldn't like me to motor you down, I suppose?" Borden suggested diffidently. "The country is delightful just now, and it would do us both good. I could get away for three days quite easily, and I could bring some work with me to peg away at whilst you are being dutiful."  
"I should love it," she declared frankly, "and I don't see the least reason why we shouldn't go. You won't mind," she went on, after a second's hesitation, "if I mention it to Reginald? I am sure he won't object."  
James Borden bit through the cigarette which he had just lit, threw it away and started another.  
"You must do whatever you think right," he said. "Perhaps you will telephone."  
"As soon as I know for certain," she promised him.  

It was obvious that the Marquis was pleased with himself when he was shown into Marcia's little sitting room later on that same afternoon. He was wearing a grey tweed check suit, a grey bowler hat, and a bunch of hothouse violets in his buttonhole. His demeanour, as he drew off his white chamois leather gloves and handed them, with his coat and cane, to the little parlourmaid, was urbane, almost benevolent.  
"You look like the springtime," Marcia declared, rising to her feet, "and here have I been cowering over the fire!"  

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