"I think," he said, "that I can guess their contents. Yes, I thought so. Can you send me to the station, Mannering?" "I can--if it is necessary," Mannering answered. "Must you really go?" Borrowdean nodded. "I must be in the House to-night," he said, a little wearily. "Rochester is going for them again." "You didn't take a pair?" Mannering asked. "It isn't altogether that," Borrowdean answered, "though Heaven knows we can't spare a single vote just now. Rochester wants me to speak. We are a used-up lot, and no mistake. We want new blood, Mannering!" "I trust that the next election," Mannering said, "may supply you with it. Will you walk round to the stables with me? I must order a cart for you." "I shall be glad to," Borrowdean answered. They walked side by side through the chestnut grove. Borrowdean laid his hand upon his friend's arm. "Mannering," he said, slowly, "am I to take it that you have spoken your last word? I am to write my mission down a failure?" "A failure without doubt, so far as regards its immediate object," Mannering assented. "For the rest, it has been very pleasant to see you again, and I only wish that you could spare us a few more days." Borrowdean shook his head. "We are better apart just now, Mannering," he said, "for I tell you frankly that I do not understand your present attitude towards life--your entire absence of all sense of moral responsibility. Are you indeed willing to be written down in history as a philanderer in great things, to loiter in your flower gardens, whilst other men fight the battle of life for you and your fellows? Persist in your refusal to help us, if you will, Mannering, but before I go you shall at least hear the truth." Mannering smiled. "Be precise, my dear friend. I shall hear your view of the truth!" "I do not accept the correction," Borrowdean answered, quickly. "There are times when a man can make no mistake, and this is one of them. You shall hear the truth from me this afternoon, and when your days here have been spun out to their limit--your days of sybaritic idleness--you shall hear it again, only it will be too late. You are fighting against Nature, Mannering. You were born to rule, to be master over men. You have that nameless gift of genius--power--the gift of swaying the minds and hearts of your fellow men. Once you accepted your destiny. Your feet were firmly planted upon the great ladder. You could have climbed--where you would." A curious quietness seemed to have crept over Mannering. When he answered, his voice seemed to rise scarcely above a whisper. "My friend," he said, "it was not worth while!" Borrowdean was almost angry.