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"Anyhow, you happen to be a gentleman."

Poor Tom had been a good deal buffeted of late, and a friendly stroking was a pleasant change. He looked up with a smile, but as he looked up Adela looked away.

"I think I'll stop those articles," said he.

"Yes, do," she cried, a bright smile on her face.

"They've pretty well done their work, too."

"Don't! Don't spoil it! But – but don't you get money for them?"

Tom was in better humour now. He held out his hand with his old friendly smile.

"Oh, wait till I am in the workhouse, and then you shall take me out."

"I don't believe I did mean that," protested Adela.

"You always mean everything that – that the best woman in the world could mean," and Tom wrung her hand and disappeared.

Adela's hand was rather crushed and hurt, and for a moment she stood regarding it ruefully.

"I thought he was going to kiss it," she said. "One of those fellows who take women's fancy, perhaps, would have! And – and it wouldn't have hurt so much. Ah, well, I'm very glad he's going to stop the articles."

And the articles did stop; and perhaps things might have fallen out worse than that an honest man, driven hard by bitterness, should do a useful thing from a doubtful motive, and having done just enough of it, should repent and sin no more; for unquestionably the articles prevented a great many persons from paying an unduly high price for Omofaga shares. This line of thought seems defensible, but it was not Adela's. She rejoiced purely that Tom should turn away from the doubtful thing; and if Tom had been a man of greater acuteness, it would have struck him as worthy of note, perhaps even of gratification, that Miss Adela Ferrars should care so much whether he did or did not do doubtful things. But then Miss Ferrars – for it seems useless to keep her secret any longer, the above recorded interview having somewhat impaired its mystery – was an improbably romantic person – such are to be met even at an age beyond twenty-five – and was very naturally ashamed of her weakness. People often are ashamed of being better than their surroundings. Being better they feel better, and feeling better they feel priggish, and then they try not to be better, and happily fail. So Adela was very shamefaced over her ideal, and would as soon have thought of preaching on a platform – of which practice she harboured a most bigoted horror – as of proclaiming the part that love must play in her marriage. The romantic resolve lay snug in its hidden nest, sheltered from cold gusts of ridicule by a thick screen of worldly sayings, and, when she sent away a suitor, of worldly-wise excuses. Thus no one suspected it, not even Tom Loring, although he thought her "the best of women;" a form of praise, by the way, that gave the lady honoured by it less pleasure than less valuable commendation might have done. Why best? Why not most charming? Well, probably because he thought the one and didn't think the other. She was the best; but there was another whose doings and whose peril had robbed Tom Loring of his peace, and made him do the doubtful thing. Why had he done it? Or (and Adela smiled mockingly at this resurrection of the Old Woman), if he did do it, why did he do it for Maggie Dennison? She didn't believe he would ever do a doubtful thing for her. For that she loved him; but perhaps she would have loved him – well, not less – if he did; for how she would forgive him!

After half-an-hour of this kind of thing – it was her own summary of her meditations – she dressed, went out to dinner, sat next Evan Haselden, and said cynical things all the evening; so that, at last Evan told her that she had no more feeling than a mummified Methodist. This was exactly what she wanted.

CHAPTER IX
AN OPPRESSIVE ATMOSPHERE

The Right Honourable Foster Belford, although not, like Mr. Pitt, famous for "ruining Great Britain gratis" – perhaps merely from want of the opportunity – had yet not made a fortune out of political life, and it had suggested a pleasant addition to his means, when Willie Ruston offered him the chairmanship of the Omofaga Company, with the promise of a very comfortable yearly honorarium. He accepted the post with alacrity, but without undue gratitude, for he considered himself well worth the price; and the surprising fact is that he was well worth it. He bulked large to the physical and mental view. His colleagues in the Cabinet had taken a year or two to find out his limits, and the public had not found them out yet. Therefore he was not exactly a fool. On the other hand, the limits were certainly there, and so there was no danger of his developing an inconvenient greatness. As has been previously hinted, he enjoyed Harry Dennison's entire confidence; and he could be relied upon not to understand Lord Semingham's irreverence. Thus his appointment did good to the Omofaga as well as to himself, and only the initiated winked when Willie Ruston hid himself behind this imposing figure and pulled the strings.

"The best of it is," Ruston remarked to Semingham, "that you and Carlin will have the whole thing in your own hands when I've gone out. Belford won't give you any trouble."

"But, my dear fellow, I don't want it all in my hands. I want to grow rich out of it without any trouble."

Ruston twisted his cigar in his mouth. The prospect of immediate wealth flowing in from Omofaga was, as Lord Semingham knew very well, not assured.

"Loring's stopped hammering us," said Ruston; "that's one thing."

"Oh, you found out he wrote them?"

"Yes; and uncommonly well he did it, confound him. I wish we could get that fellow. There's a good deal in him."

"You see," observed Lord Semingham, "he doesn't like you. I don't know that you went the right way about to make him."

The remark sounded blunt, but Semingham had learnt not to waste delicate phrases on Willie Ruston.

"Well, I didn't know he was worth the trouble."

"One path to greatness is said to be to make no enemies."

"A very roundabout one, I should think. I'm going to make a good many enemies in Omofaga."

Lord Semingham suddenly rose, put on his hat, and left the offices of the Company. Mrs. Dennison had, a little while ago, complained to him that she ate, drank, breathed and wore Omofaga. He had detected the insincerity of her complaint, but he was becoming inclined to echo it in all genuineness on his own account. There were moments when he wondered how and why he had allowed this young man to lead him so far and so deep; moments when a convulsion of Nature, redistributing Africa and blotting out Omofaga, would have left him some thousands of pounds poorer in purse, but appreciably more cheerful in spirit. Perhaps matters would mend when the Local Administrator had departed to his local administration, and only the mild shadow of him which bore the name of Carlin trod the boards of Queen Street, Cheapside. Ruston began to be oppressive. The restless energy and domineering mind of the man wearied Semingham's indolent and dilettante spirit, and he hailed the end of the season as an excellent excuse for putting himself beyond the reach of his colleague for a few weeks. Yet, the more he quailed, the more he trusted; and when a very great man, holding a very great office, met him in the House of Lords, and expressed the opinion that when the Company and Mr. Ruston went to Omofaga they would find themselves in a pretty hornets' nest, Lord Semingham only said that he should be sorry for the hornets.

"Don't ask us to fetch your man out for you, that's all," said the very great man.

And for an instant Lord Semingham, still feeling that load upon his shoulders, fancied that it would be far from his heart to prefer such a request. There might be things less just and fitting than that Willie Ruston and those savage tribes of Omofaga should be left to fight out the quarrel by themselves, the civilised world standing aloof. And the dividends – well, of course, there were the dividends, but Lord Semingham had in his haste forgotten them.

"Ah, you don't know Ruston," said he, shaking a forefinger at the great man.

"Don't I? He came every day to my office for a fortnight."

"Wanted something?"

"Yes, he wanted something certainly, or he wouldn't have come, you know."

"Got it, I suppose?" asked Lord Semingham, in a tone curiously indicative of resignation rather than triumph.

"Well, yes; I did, at last, not without hesitation, accede to his request."

Then Lord Semingham, with no apparent excuse, laughed in the face of the great man, left the House (much in the same sudden way as he had left Queen Street, Cheapside), and passed rapidly through the lobbies till he reached Westminster Hall. Here he met a young man, clad to perfection, but looking sad. It was Evan Haselden. With a sigh of relief at meeting no one of heavier metal, Semingham stopped him and began to talk. Evan's melancholy air enveloped his answers in a mist of gloom. Moreover there was a large streak on his hat, where the nap had been rubbed the wrong way; evidently he was in trouble. Presently he seized his friend by the arm, and proposed a walk in the Park.

"But are you paired?" asked Semingham; for an important division was to occur that day in the Commons.

"No," said Evan fiercely. "Come along;" and Lord Semingham went, exclaiming inwardly, "A girl!"

"I'm the most miserable devil alive," said Evan, as they left the Horse Guards on the right hand.

Semingham put up his eyeglass.

"I've always regarded you as the favourite of fortune," he said. "What's the matter?"

The matter unfolded itself some half-hour after they had reached the Row and sat down. It came forth with difficulty; pride obstructed the passage, and something better than pride made the young man diffuse in the telling of his trouble. Lord Semingham grew very grave indeed. Let who would laugh at happy lovers, he had a groan for the unfortunate – a groan with reservations.

"She said she liked me very much, but didn't feel – didn't, you know, look up to me enough, and so on," said poor Evan in puzzled pain. "I – I can't think what's come over her. She used to be quite different. I don't know what she means by talking like that."

Lord Semingham played a tune on his knee with the fingers of one hand. He was waiting.

"Young Val's gone back on me too," moaned Evan, who took the brother's deposal of him hardly more easily than the sister's rejection. Suddenly he brightened up; a smile, but a bitter one, gleamed across his face.

"I think I've put one spoke in his wheel, though," he said.

"Ruston's?" inquired Semingham, still playing his tune.

"Yes. A fortnight ago, old Detchmore" (Lord Detchmore was the very great man before referred to) "asked me if I knew Loring. You know Ruston's been trying to get Detchmore to back him up in making a railway to Omofaga?"

"I didn't know," said Lord Semingham, with an unmoved face.

"You're a director, aren't you?"

"Yes. Go on, my dear boy."

"And Detchmore had seen Loring's articles. Well, I took Tom to him, and we left him quite decided to have nothing to do with it. Oh, by Jove, though, I forgot; I suppose you'd be on the other side there, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose I should, but it doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I fancy Ruston's got what he wanted;" and Lord Semingham related what he had heard from the Earl of Detchmore.

Evan listened in silence, and, the tale ended, the two lay back in their chairs, and idly looked at the passing carriages. At last Lord Semingham spoke.

"He's going to Omofaga in a few months," he observed. "And, Evan, you don't mean that he's your rival at the Valentines'?"

"I'm not so sure, confound him. You know how pretty she is."

Semingham knew that she was pretty; but he also knew that she was poor, and thought that she was, if not too insipid (for he recognised the unusual taste of his own mind), at least too immature to carry Willie Ruston off his feet, and into a love affair that promised no worldly gain.

"I asked Mrs. Dennison what she thought," pursued Evan.

"Oh, you did?"

"But the idea seemed quite a new one to her. That's good, you know. I expect she'd have noticed if he'd shown any signs."

Lord Semingham thought it very likely.

"Anyhow," Evan continued, "Marjory's awfully keen about him."

"He'll be in Omofaga in three or four months," Semingham repeated. It was all the consolation he could offer.

Presently Evan got up and strode away. Lord Semingham sat on, musing on the strange turmoil the coming of the man had made in the little corner of the world he dwelt in. He was reminded of what was said concerning Lord Byron by another poet. They all felt Ruston. His intrusion into the circle had changed all the currents, so that sympathy ran no longer between old friends, and hearts answered to a new stimulus. Some he attracted, some he repelled; none did he leave alone. From great to small his influence ran; from the expulsion of Tom Loring to the christening of the Omofaga mantle. Semingham had an acute sense of the absurdity of it all, but he had seen absurd things happen too often to be much relieved by his intuition. And when absurd things happen, they have consequences just as other things have. And the most exasperating fact was the utter unconsciousness of the disturber. He had no mystery-airs, no graces, no seeming fascinations. He was relentlessly business-like, unsentimental, downright; he took it all as a matter of course. He did not pry for weak spots. He went right on – on and over – and seemed not to know when he was going over. A very Juggernaut indeed! Semingham thanked Adela for teaching him the word.

He was suddenly roused by the merry laughter of children. Three or four little ones were scampering along the path in the height of glee. As they came up, he recognised them. He had seen them once before. They were Carlin's children. Five there were, he counted now; three ran ahead; two little girls held each a hand of Willie Ruston's, who was laughing as merrily as his companions. The whole group knew Semingham, and the eldest child was by his knees in a moment.

"We've been to the Exhibition," she cried exultantly; "and now Willie – Mr. Ruston, I mean – is taking us to have ices in Bond Street."

"A human devil!" said the astonished man to himself, as Willie Ruston plumped down beside him, imploring a brief halt, and earnestly asseverating that his request was in good faith, and concealed no lurking desire to evade the ices.

"I met young Haselden as we came along," Ruston observed, wiping his brow.

"Ah! Yes, he's been with me."

The children had wandered a few yards off, and stood impatiently looking at their hero.

"He's had a bit of a facer, I fancy," pursued Willie Ruston. "Heard about it?"

"Something."

"It'll come all right, I should think," said Ruston, in a comfortably careless tone. "He's not a bad fellow, you know, though he's not over-appreciative of me." Lord Semingham found no comment. "I hear you're going to Dieppe next week?" asked Ruston.

"Yes. My wife and Mrs. Dennison have put their heads together, and fixed on that. You know we're economising."

Ruston laughed.

"I suppose you are," he said through his white teeth. The idea seemed to amuse him. "We may meet there. I've promised to run over for a few days if I can."

"The deuce you have!" would have expressed his companion's feelings; but Lord Semingham only said, "Oh, really?"

"All right, I'm coming directly," Ruston cried a moment later to his young friends, and, with a friendly nod, he rose and went on his way. Lord Semingham watched the party till it disappeared through the Park gates, hearing in turn the children's shrill laugh and Willie Ruston's deeper notes. The effect of the chance meeting was to make his fancies and his fancied feelings look still more absurd. That he perceived at once; the devil appeared so very human in such a mood and such surroundings. Yet that attribute – that most demoniac attribute – of ubiquity loomed larger and larger. For not even a foreign land – not even a watering-place of pronounced frivolity – was to be a refuge. The man was coming to Dieppe! And on whose bidding? Semingham had no doubt on whose bidding; and, out of the airy forms of those absurd fancies, there seemed to rise a more material shape, a reality, a fabric not compounded wholly of dreams, but mixed of stuff that had made human comedies and human tragedies since the world began. Mrs. Dennison had bidden Willie Ruston to Dieppe. That was Semingham's instant conclusion; she had bidden him, not merely by a formal invitation, or by a simple acquiescence, but by the will and determination which possessed her to be of his mind and in his schemes. And perhaps Evan Haselden's innocent asking of her views had carried its weight also. For nearly an hour Semingham sat and mused. For awhile he thought he would act; but how should he act? And why? And to what end? Since what must be must, and in vain do we meddle with fate. An easy, almost eager, recognition of the inevitable in the threatened, of the necessary in everything that demanded effort for its avoidance, had stamped his life and grown deep into his mind. Wherefore now, faced with possibilities that set his nerves on edge, and wrung his heart for good friends, he found nothing better to do than shrug his shoulders and thank God that his own wife's submission to the man went no deeper than the inside lining of that famous Omofaga mantle, nor his own than the bottom, or near the bottom, of his trousers' pocket.

"Though that, in faith," he exclaimed ruefully, as at last he rose, "is, in this world of ours, pretty deep!"

CHAPTER X
A LADY'S BIT OF WORK

The Dennison children, after a two nights' banishment, had come down to dessert again. They had been in sore disgrace, caused (it was stated to Mrs. Cormack, who had been invited to dine en famille) by a grave breach of hospitality and good manners which Madge had led the younger ones – who tried to look plaintively innocent – into committing.

The Carlin children had come to tea, and a great dissension had arisen between the two parties. The Carlins had belauded the generous donor of ices; Madge had taken up the cudgels fiercely on Tom Loring's behalf, and Dora and Alfred had backed her up. Each side proceeded from praise of its own favourite to sneers – by no means covert – at the other's man, and the feud had passed from the stage of words to that of deeds before it was discovered by the superior powers and crushed. On the hosts, of course, the blame had to fall; they were sent to bed, while the guests drove off in triumph, comforted by sweets and shillings. Madge did not think, or pretend to think, that this was justice, and her mother's recital of her crimes to Mrs. Cormack, so far from reducing her to penitence, brought back to her cheeks and eyes the glow they had worn when she slapped (there is no use in blinking facts) Jessie Carlin, and told her that she hated Mr. Ruston. Madge Dennison was like her mother in face and temper. That may have been the reason why Harry Dennison squeezed her hand under the table, and by his tacit aid broke the force of his wife's cold reproofs. But there was perhaps another reason also.

Mrs. Cormack said that she was shocked, and looked very much amused. The little history made up for the bore of having the children brought in. That was a thing she objected to very much; it stopped all rational conversation. But now her curiosity was stirred.

"Why don't you like Mr. Ruston, my child?" she asked Madge.

"I don't dislike him," said Madge, rosy red, and speaking with elaborate slowness. She said it as though it were a lesson she had learnt.

"But why, then," said Mrs. Cormack, whirling her hands, "beat the little Carlin?"

"That was before mamma told me," answered Madge, the two younger ones sitting by, open-mouthed, to hear her explanation.

"Oh, what an obedient child! How I should have liked a little girl like you, darling!"

Madge hated sarcasm, and her feelings towards Mrs. Cormack reflected those of her idol, Tom Loring.

"I don't know what you mean," she said curtly; and then she looked anxiously at her mother.

But Mrs. Dennison was smiling.

"Let her alone, Berthe," she said. "She's been punished. Give her some fruit, Harry."

Harry Dennison piled up the plate eagerly held out to him.

"Who'll give you fruit at Dieppe?" he asked, stroking his daughter's hair.

Mrs. Cormack pricked up her ears.

"Didn't we tell you?" asked Mrs. Dennison. "Harry can't come for a fortnight. That tiresome old Sir George" (Sir George was the senior partner in Dennison, Sons & Company) "is down with the gout, and Harry's got to stay in town. But I'll give Madge fruit – if she's good."

"Papa gives it me anyhow," said Madge, who preferred unconditional benefits.

Harry laughed dolefully. He had been looking forward to a holiday with his children. Their uninterrupted society would have easily consoled him for the loss of the moor.

"It's an awful bore," he said; "but there's no help for it. Sir George can't put a foot to the ground."

"Anyhow," suggested Mrs. Cormack, "you will be able to help Mr. Ruston with the Omofaga."

"Papa," broke out Madge, her face bright with a really happy idea, which must, she thought, meet with general acceptance, "since you can't come, why shouldn't Tom?"

Mrs. Cormack grew more amused. Oh, it was quite worth while to have the children! They were so good at saying things one couldn't say oneself; and then one could watch the effect. In an impulse of gratitude, she slid a banana on to Madge's plate.

"Marjory Valentine's coming," said Mrs. Dennison. "You like her, don't you, Madge?"

"She's a girl," said Madge scornfully; and Harry, with a laugh, stroked her hair again.

"You're a little flirt," said he.

"But why can't Tom?" persisted Madge, as she attacked the banana. It was Mrs. Cormack's gift, but —non olet.

For a moment nobody answered. Then Harry Dennison said – not in the least as though he believed it, or expected anybody else to believe it —

"Tom's got to stay and work."

"Have all the gentlemen we know got to stay and work?"

Harry nodded assent.

Mrs. Cormack was leaning forward. A moment later she sank back, hiding a smile behind her napkin; for Madge observed, in a tone of utter contentment,

"Oh, then, Mr Ruston won't come;" and she wagged her head reassuringly at the open-mouthed little ones. They were satisfied, and fell again to eating.

After a few moments, Mrs. Dennison, who had made no comment on her daughter's inference, swept the flock off to bed, praying Berthe to excuse her temporary absence. It was her habit to go upstairs with them when possible, and Harry would see that coffee came.

"Poor Madge!" said Harry, when the door was shut, "what'll she say when Ruston turns up?"

"Then he does go?"

"I think so. We'd asked him to stay with us, and though he can't do that now, he and young Walter Valentine talk of running over for a few days. I hope they will."

Mrs. Cormack, playing with her teaspoon, glanced at her host out of the corner of her eye.

"He can go all the better, as I shall be here," continued Harry. "I can look after Omofaga."

Mrs. Cormack rapped the teaspoon sharply on her cup. The man was such a fool. Harry, dimly recognising her irritation, looked up inquiringly; but she hesitated before she spoke. Would it spoil sport or make sport if she stirred a suspicion in him? A thought threw its weight in the balance. Maggie Dennison's friendship had been a trifle condescending, and the grateful friend pictured her under the indignity of enforced explanations, of protests, even of orders to alter her conduct. But how would Harry take a hint? There were men silly enough to resent such hints. Caution was the word.

"Well, I almost wish he wasn't going," she said at last. "For Maggie's sake, I mean. She wants a complete rest."

"Oh, but she likes him. He amuses her. Why, she's tremendously interested in Omofaga, Mrs. Cormack."

"Ah, but he excites her too. We poor women have nerves, Mr. Dennison. It would be much better for her to hear nothing of Omofaga for a few weeks."

"Has she been talking to you much about it?" asked Harry, beginning to feel anxious at his guest's immensely solemn tone.

Indeed, little Mrs. Cormack spoke for the nonce quite like a family physician.

"Oh, yes, about it and him," she replied. "She's never off the subject. Mr. Loring was half right."

"Tom's objections were based on quite other grounds."

"Oh, were they really? I thought – well, anyhow, Mr. Ruston being there will do her no good. She'll like it immensely, of course."

Harry Dennison rubbed his hand over his chin.

"I see what you mean," he said. "Yes, she'd have been better away from everything. But I can't object to Ruston going. I asked him myself."

"Yes, when you were going."

"That makes no difference."

Mrs. Cormack said nothing. She tapped her spoon against the cup once more.

"Why, we should have talked all the more about it if I'd been there."

His companion was still silent, her eyes turned down towards the table. Harry looked at her with perplexity, and when he next spoke, there was a curious appealing note in his voice.

"Surely it doesn't make any difference?" he asked. "What difference can it make?"

No answer came. Mrs. Cormack laid down the spoon and sat back in her chair.

"You mean there'll be no one to make a change for her – to distract her thoughts?"

Mrs. Cormack flung her hands out with an air of impatience.

"Oh, I meant nothing," said she petulantly.

The clock seemed to tick very loud in the silence that followed her words.

"I wish I could go," said Harry at last, in a low tone.

"Oh, I wish you could, Mr. Dennison;" and as she spoke she raised her eyes, and, for the first time, looked full in his face.

Harry rose from his chair; at the same moment his wife re-entered the room. He started a little at the sight of her.

She held a letter in her hand.

"Mr. Ruston will be at Dieppe on the 15th with Walter Valentine," she said, referring to it. "Give me some coffee, Harry."

He poured it out and gave it to her, saying,

"A letter from Ruston? Let's see what he says."

"Oh, there's nothing else," she answered, laying it beside her.

Mrs. Cormack sat looking on.

"May I see?" asked Harry Dennison.

"If you like," she answered, a little surprised; and, turning to Mrs. Cormack, she added, "Mr. Ruston's a man of few words on paper."

"Ah, he makes every word mean something, I expect," returned that lady, who was quite capable of the same achievement herself, and exhibited it in this very speech.

"What does he mean by the postscript? – 'Have you found another kingdom yet?'" asked Harry, with a puzzled frown.

"It's a joke, dear."

"But what does it mean?"

"Oh, my dear Harry, I can't explain jokes."

Harry laid the note down again.

"It's a joke between ourselves," Mrs. Dennison went on. "I oughtn't to have shown you the letter. Come, Berthe, we'll go upstairs."

And Mrs. Cormack had no alternative but to obey.

Left alone, Harry Dennison drew his chair up to the hearthrug. There was no fire, but he acted as though there were, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and gazing into the grate. He felt hurt and disconsolate. His old grievance – that people left him out – was strong upon him. He had delighted in the Omofaga scheme, because he had been in the inside ring there – because he was of importance to it – because it showed him to his wife as a mover in great affairs. And now – somehow – he seemed to be being pushed outside there too. What was this joke between themselves? At Dieppe they would have all that out; he would not be in the way there. Then he did not understand what Berthe Cormack would be at. She had looked at him so curiously. He did not know what to make of it, and he wished that Tom Loring were on the other side of the fireplace. Then he could ask him all about it. Tom! Why, Tom had looked at him almost in the same way as Berthe Cormack had – just when he was wringing his hand in farewell. No, it was not the same way – and yet in part the same. Tom's look had pity in it, and no derision. Mrs. Cormack's derision was but touched with pity. Yet both seemed to ask, "Don't you see?" See what? Why had Tom gone away? He could rely on Tom. See what? There was nothing to see.

He sat longer than he meant. It was past ten when he went upstairs. Mrs. Cormack had gone, and his wife was in an armchair by the open window. He came in softly and surprised her with her head thrown back on the cushions and a smile on her lips. And the letter was in her hands. Hearing his step when he was close by her, she sat up, letting the note fall to the ground.

"What a time you've been! Berthe's gone. Were you asleep?"

"No. I was thinking; Maggie, I wish I could come to Dieppe with you."

"Ah, I wish you could," said she graciously. "But you're left in charge of Omofaga."

She spoke as though in that charge lay consolation more than enough.

"I believe you care – I mean you think more about Omofaga than about – "

"Anything in the world?" she asked, in playful mockery.

"Than about me," he went on stubbornly.

"Than about your coming to Dieppe, you mean?"

"I mean, than about me," he repeated.

She looked at him wonderingly.

"My dear man," said she, taking his hand, "what's the matter?"

"You do wish I could come?"

"Must I say?" smiled Mrs. Dennison. "For shame, Harry! You might be on your honeymoon."

He moved away, and flung himself into a chair.

"I don't think it's fair of Ruston," he broke out, "to run away and leave it all to me."

"Why, you told him you could do it perfectly! I heard you say so."

"How could I say anything else, when – when – "

"And originally you were both to be away! After all, you're not stopping because of Omofaga, but because Sir George has got the gout."

Harry Dennison, convicted of folly, had no answer, though he was hurt that he should be convicted out of his wife's mouth. He shuffled his feet about and began to whistle dolefully.

Mrs. Dennison looked at him with smothered impatience. Their little boy behaved like that when he was in a naughty mood – when he wanted the moon, or something of that kind, and thought mother and nurse cruel because it didn't come. Mrs. Dennison forgot that mother and nurse were fate to her little boy, or she might have sympathised with his naughty moods a little better.