ion. He
answered her kindly.

"Scarcely any, Hester," he answered. "Your typing is always excellent."

Her anxiety was only half allayed.

"There is nothing else wrong?" she demanded, breathlessly.

"Nothing whatever," he assured her. "Where is your mother?"

She sat down. The light died out of her face.

"Out!" she answered. "Gone to Brighton for the day. What do you want with
her?"

"Nothing," he answered, gravely. "I only wanted to know whether we were
likely to be interrupted."

"She will not be in for some time," the girl answered. "She is almost
certain to stay down there and dine."

He nodded.

"Hester," he asked, "do you know any one--a man named Borrowdean? Sir
Leslie Borrowdean?"

She shook her head a little doubtfully.

"I have heard mother speak of him," she said.

"He is a friend of hers, then?"

"She met him at a supper party at the Savoy a few weeks ago," she
answered.

"And since?"

"I believe so! She talks about him a great deal. Why do you ask me this?"

"I cannot tell you, Hester," he said, gravely. "By the bye, do you think
that she is likely to have mentioned my name to him?"

The girl flushed up to her eyebrows.

"I--I don't know! I am sorry," she faltered. "You know what mother is. If
any one asked her questions she would be more than likely to answer them.
I do hope that she has not been making mischief."

He left her anxiety unrelieved. For some few moments he did not speak
at all. Already he fancied that he could see the whole pitiful little
incident--Borrowdean, diplomatic, genial, persistent, the woman a fool,
fashioned to his own making; himself the sacrifice. Yet the meaning of it
all was dark to him.

She moved over to his side. Her eyes and tone were full of appeal. She
sat close to him, her long white fingers nervously interlocked.

"I am afraid of you. More afraid than ever to-day," she murmured. "You
look stern, and I don't understand why you have come."

"To see you, Hester," he answered, with a sudden impulse of kindness.

"Ah, no!" she interrupted, choking back a little sob. "We both know so
well that it is not that. It is pity which brings you, pity and nothing
else. You know very well what a difference it makes to me. If I have your
work to do, and a letter sometimes, and see you now and then, I can bear
everything. But it is not easy. It is never easy!"

"Of course it is not," he assented. "Hester, have you thought over what I
said to you last tim