are to remain even nominally with us some sort
of pronouncement must come from you in reply to these statements."

"Yes," Mannering said, "that is quite reasonable."

"The postponement of your campaign has been hinted at before," Lord
Redford continued, "but we have never used the word abandonment. Now, to
speak bluntly, the whole fat is in the fire. Your place on the fence is
no longer possible. You must make your own declaration, and it must be
for one of three things. You must remain with us, abandon public life for
a time, or go over to the other side. And you must make promptly an
announcement of your intentions."

"I have no alternative in the matter," Mannering said. "In fact, I think
that this has happened opportunely. My presence with you was sure to
prove something of an embarrassment to all of us. I shall apply for the
Chiltern Hundreds to-morrow, and I shall not seek to re-enter the present
Parliament. The few months' respite will be useful to me. I can only
express to you, Lord Redford, my sincere gratitude for all your
consideration, and my regret for this disarrangement of your plans."

Lord Redford sighed. Why were men born, he wondered, with such a
prodigious capacity for playing the fool?

"My chief regret, Mannering," he said, "is for you. The Fates so
controlled circumstances that you seemed certain to achieve as a young
man what is the crowning triumph of us veterans in the political world. I
respect the honest scruples of every man, but it seems to me that you are
throwing away an unparalleled opportunity in a fit of what a practical
man like myself can only call sentimentality. I have no more to say.
Forgive me if I have said too much. For the rest, give us the pleasure of
your company here for as long as you find it convenient. We will abjure
politics, and you shall give me my revenge at golf."

Mannering shook his head.

"I am very much obliged to you," he said, "but there is only one course
open to me. I must go back and make my plans. If I could have a carriage
for the nine-forty!"

Lord Redford made no effort to induce him to change his mind, though he
remained courteous to the last.

"I was really glad to have him go," he told Borrowdean afterwards. "His
very presence--the thought that there could be such colossal fools in the
world--irritated me beyond measure. You can write his epitaph, Leslie, if
your humorous vein is working, for the man is politically dead."

"One never know