"As you please, of course," said Ruston, shortly. "I daresay you're right. I should like to say, Dennison, that I did not intend – ." He suddenly stopped short. There was no need to rush unbidden into more falseness. "Good-bye," he said.

Harry took the offered hand in a limp grasp, but his eyes did not leave the ground. A moment later the door closed, and Ruston was alone outside – knowing that he had been turned out – in however ineffective blundering manner, yet, in fact, turned out – and by Harry Dennison. That Harry knew nothing, he hardly felt as a comfort; that perhaps he suspected hardly as a danger. He was angry and humiliated that such a thing should happen, and that he should be powerless to prevent, and without title to resent, the blow.

Looking up he caught sight dimly in the dim light of a lithe figure and a mocking face. Mrs. Cormack had regained her own house by means of the little gate, and stood leaning over the balcony smiling at him like some disguised fiend in a ballet or opera-bouffe. He heard a tinkling laugh. Had she listened? She was capable of it, and if she had, it might well be that she had caught a word or two. But perhaps his air and attitude were enough to tell the tale. She craned her neck over the parapet, and called to him.

"I hope we shall see you soon again. Of course, you'll be coming to see Maggie soon?"

"Oh, soon, I hope," he answered sturdily, and the low tinkle of laughter rang out again in answer.

Without more, he turned on his heel and walked down the street, a morose frown on his brow.

He had been gone some half-hour when, just before eight o'clock, Mrs. Dennison's victoria drove quickly up to the door. The evening was chilly and she was wearing her furs. Her face rose pale and rigid above them; and as she walked to the house, her steps dragged as though in weariness. She did not go upstairs, but knocked, almost timidly, at the door of her husband's study. Entering in obedience to his call, she found him sitting in his deep leathern arm-chair by the fire. She leant her arm on the back and stared over his head into the fire.

"Anyone been, Harry?" she asked.

He lifted his eyes with a start.

"Is it you, Maggie?" he cried, leaping up and seizing her hand. "Why, how cold you are, dear! Come and sit by the fire."

She did as he bade her.

"Any visitors?" she asked again.

"Ruston," he answered, turning and poking the fire as he did so. "He came to see me about the Company, you know."

"Is he long gone?"

"Yes, some time."

"He was angry, was he?"

"Yes, Maggie. But I stuck to it. I won't have anything more to do with the thing."

His petulance betrayed itself again in his voice. She said nothing, and, after a moment, he asked anxiously,

"Do you mind much? You know the doctor – ?"

"Oh, the doctor! No, Harry, I don't mind. Do as you like. He can get on without us."

"If you really mind, I'll try – "

"No, no, no," she burst out. "You're quite right. Of course you're right. I don't want you to go on. I'm tired of it too."

"Are you?" he asked, with a face suddenly brightening. "Are you really? Then I'm glad I told Ruston not to come bothering about it here."

Had he been listening, he could have heard the sharp indrawing of her breath.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why, I told him not to come and see you till – till you were stronger."

She shot a terrified glance at him. His expression was merely anxious and, according to its wont when he was in a difficulty, apologetic.

"And he won't be here much longer now," he added, comfortingly.

"No, not much," she forced herself to murmur.

"Won't you go and dress for dinner?" he asked, after a moment. "It's ordered for a quarter-past, and it's more than that now."

"Is it? I'll come directly. You go, and I'll follow you. I shan't be long."

He came near to where she sat.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"Oh, Harry, Harry, I'm well, perfectly well! You and your doctor!" and she broke into an impatient laugh. "You'll persuade me into the grave before you've done."

He looked at her for a moment, and then, shaping his lips to whistle, sounded a few dreary notes and stole out of the room.

She heard the door close, and, sitting up, stretched her arms over her head. Then she sighed for relief at his going. It was much to be alone.

CHAPTER XXII.
A TOAST IN CHAMPAGNE

"A month to-day!" said Lady Valentine, pausing in her writing (she had just set "Octr. 10th" at the head of her paper) and gazing sorrowfully across the room at Marjory.

Marjory knew well what she meant. The poor woman was counting the days that still lay between her and the departure of her son.

"Now don't, mother," protested Marjory.

"Oh, I know I'm silly. I met Mr. Ruston at the Seminghams' yesterday, and he told me that there wasn't the least danger, and that it was a glorious chance for Walter – just what you said from the first, dear – and that Walter could run over and see me in about eighteen months' time. Oh, but, Marjory, I know it's dangerous!"

Marjory rose and crossed over to where her mother sat.

"You must be a Spartan matron, dear," said she. "You can't keep Walter in leading strings all his life."

"No; but he might have stayed here, and got on, and gone into Parliament, and so on." She paused and added, "Like Evan, you know."

Marjory coloured – more from self-reproach than embarrassment. She had gone in these last weeks terribly near to forgetting poor Evan's existence.

"Evan came in while I was at the Seminghams'. He looked so dull, poor fellow. I – I asked him to dinner, Marjory. He hasn't been here for a long while. We haven't seen nearly as much of him since we knew Mr. Ruston. I don't think they like one another."

"You know why he hasn't come here," said Marjory softly.

"He spent a week with me while you were at Dieppe. He seemed to like to hear about you."

A smile of sad patience appeared on Marjory's face.

"Oh, my dear, you are such a bad hinter," she half laughed, half moaned.

"Poor Evan! I'm very sorry for him; but I can't help it, can I?"

"It would have been so nice."

"And you used to be such a mercenary creature!"

"Ah, well, my dear, I want to keep one of my children with me. But, if it can't be, it can't."

Marjory bent down and whispered in her mother's ear, "I'm not going to Omofaga, dear."

"Well, I used to be half afraid of it," admitted Lady Valentine (she forgot that she had half hoped it also); "but you never seem to be interested in him now. Do you mind Evan coming to dinner?"

"Oh, no," said Marjory.

Since her return from Dieppe she had seemed to "mind" nothing. Relaxation of the strain under which her days passed there had left her numbed. She was conscious only of a passionate shrinking from the sight or company of the two people who had there filled her life. To meet them again forced her back in thought to that dreary mysterious night with its unsolved riddle, that she feared seeking to answer.

Her mother had called on Maggie Dennison, and came back with a flow of kindly lamentations over Maggie's white cheeks and listless weary air. Her brother was constantly with Ruston, and tried to persuade her to join parties of which he was to be one. She fenced with both of them, escaping on one plea and another; and Maggie's acquiescence in her absence, no less than Ruston's failure to make a chance of meeting her, strengthened her resolve to remain aloof.

Young Sir Walter also came to dinner that night; he was very gay and chatty, full of Omofaga and his fast-approaching expedition. He greeted Evan Haselden with a manner that claimed at least equality; nay, he lectured him a little on the ignorant interference of a stay-at-home House of Commons with the work of the men on the spot, in South Africa and elsewhere; people on this side would not give a man a free hand, he complained, and exhorted Evan to take no part in such ill-advised meddling.

Hence he was led on to the topic he was never now far away from – Willie Ruston – and he reproached his mother and sister for their want of attention to the hero.

This was the first gleam of light for poor Evan Haselden, for it told him that Willie Ruston was not, as he had feared, a successful rival. He rejoiced at Lady Valentine's hinted dislike of Ruston, and anxiously studied Marjory's face in hope of detecting a like disposition. But his vanity led him to return Walter's lecture, and he added an innuendo concerning the unscrupulousness of adventurers who cloaked money-making under specious pretences. Walter flared up in a moment, and the dinner ended in something like a dispute between the two young men.

"Well, Dennison's found him out, anyhow," said Evan bitterly. "He's cut the whole concern."

"We can do without Dennison," said young Sir Walter scornfully.

When the meal was finished, young Sir Walter, treating his friend without ceremony, carelessly pleaded an engagement, and went out. Lady Valentine, interpreting Evan's glances, and hoping against hope, seized the chance of leaving him alone with her daughter. Marjory watched the manœuvre without thwarting it. Her heart was more dead to Evan than it had ever been. Her experiences at Dieppe had aged her mind, and she found him less capable of stirring any feeling in her than even in the days when she had half made a hero out of Willie Ruston.

She waited for his words in resignation; and he, acute enough to mark her moods, began as a man begins who rushes on anticipated defeat. What is unintelligible seems most irresistible, and he knew not at what point to attack her indifference. He saw the change in her; he could have dated its beginning. The cause he found somehow in Ruston, but yet it was clear to him that she did not think of Ruston as a suitor – almost clear that she heard his name and thought of him with repulsion – and that the attraction he had once exercised over her was gone.

The weary talk wore to its close, ending with angry petulance on his side, and, at last, on hers with a grief that was half anger. He could not believe in her decision, unless there were one who had displaced him; and, seeing none save Ruston, in spite of his own convictions, he broke at last into a demand to be told whether she thought of him. Marjory started in horror, crying, "No, no," and, for all Evan's preoccupation, her vehemence amazed him.

"Oh, you've found him out too, perhaps," he sneered. "You've found him out by now. All the same, it was his fault that you didn't care for me before."

"Evan," she implored, "do, pray, not talk like that. There's not a man in the whole world that I would not have for my husband rather than him."

"Now," he repeated; "but I'm speaking of before."

Half angry again at that he should allow himself such an insinuation, she yet liked him too well, and felt too unhappy to be insincere.

"Well," she said with a troubled smile, "if you like, I've found him out."

"Then, Marjory," cried Evan, in a spasm of reviving hope, "if that fellow's out of the way – "

But she would not hear him, and he flung himself out of the house with a rudeness that his love pardoned.

She heard him go, in aching sorrow that he, who felt few things deeply, should feel this one so deeply. Then, following the calls of society, which are followed in spite of most troubles, she, pale-faced and sad, and her mother, almost weeping in motherly distress, dressed themselves to go to a party. Lady Semingham was at home that night.

At the party all was gay and bright. Lady Semingham was chattering to Mr. Otto Heather. Semingham was trying to make Mr. Foster Belford understand the story of the Baron and Willie Ruston, Lord Detchmore, who had come in from a public dinner, was conspicuous in his blue riband, and was listening to Adela Ferrars with a smile on his face. Marjory sat down in a corner, hoping to escape introductions, and, when an old friend carried her mother off to eat an ice, she kept her place. Presently she heard cried, "Mrs. Dennison," and Maggie came in with her usual grace. It seemed as though the last few months were blotted out, and they were all again at that first party at Mrs. Dennison's where Willie Ruston had made his entrée. The illusion was not to lack confirmation, for, a moment later, Ruston himself was announced, and the sound of his name made Adela turn her head for one swift moment from her distinguished companion.

"Ah!" said Lord Detchmore, "then I must go. If I talk to him any more I'm a lost man."

"There's Mr. Loring in the corner – no, not that corner; that's Marjory Valentine. He will take your side."

"Why are they all in corners?" asked Detchmore.

"They don't want to be trodden on," said Adela, with a grimace. "You'd better take one too."

"There's Mrs. Dennison in a third corner. Shall I take that one, or should I get trodden on there?"

Adela looked up swiftly. His remark hinted at gossip afloat.

"Take one for yourself," she began, with an uneasy laugh. But the laugh suddenly became genuine for the very absurdity of the thing. "We'll go and join Mr. Loring, shall we?" she proposed.

Lord Detchmore acquiesced, and they walked over to where Tom stood. On their way, to their consternation, they encountered Willie Ruston.

"Now we're in for it," breathed Detchmore in low tones. But Ruston, with a bow, passed on, going straight as an arrow towards where Maggie Dennison sat. Lord Detchmore raised his eyebrows, Adela shut her fan with a click, Tom Loring, when they reached him, was frowning. Away across the room sat Marjory alone.

"Good heavens! he let me alone!" exclaimed Lord Detchmore.

"Perhaps I was your shield," said Adela. "He doesn't like me."

"Nor you, Loring, I expect?"

Presently Lord Detchmore moved away, leaving Adela and Tom together. They had been together a good deal lately, and their tones showed the intimacy of friendship.

"That man," said Adela quickly, "suspects something. He's a terrible old gossip, although he is a great statesman, of course. Can't you prevent them talking there together?"

"No," said Tom composedly, "I can't; she'd send me away if I went."

"Then I shall go. Why isn't Harry here?"

"He wouldn't come. I've been dining with him at the club."

"He ought to have come."

"I don't believe it would have made any difference."

Adela looked at him for a moment; then she walked swiftly across the room to Maggie Dennison, and held out her hand.

"Maggie, I haven't had a talk with you for ever so long. How do you do, Mr. Ruston?"

Ruston shook hands but did not move. He stood silently through two or three moments of Adela's forced chatter. Mrs. Dennison was sitting on a small couch, which would just hold two people; but she sat in the middle of it, and did not offer to make room for Adela. When Adela paused for want of anything to say, there was silence. She looked from the one to the other. Ruston smiled the smile that always exasperated her on his face – the smile of possession she called it in an attempt at definition.

"Look at Marjory!" said Mrs. Dennison. "How solitary she looks! Poor girl! Do go and talk to her, Adela."

"I came to talk to you," said Adela, in fiery temper.

"Well, I'll come and talk to you both directly," said Maggie.

"We're talking business," added Willie Ruston, still smiling.

"Oh, if you don't want me!" cried Adela, and she turned away, declaring in her heart that she had made the last effort of friendship.

With her going went Ruston's smile. He bent his head, and said in a low voice,

"You are the only woman whom I could have left like that, and the only one whom I could have found it hard to leave. Was it very hard for you?"

"It was just the truth for me," she answered.

"Of course you were angry and hurt. I was afraid you would be," he said.

She looked at him with a curious smile.

"But then," he continued, "you saw how I was placed. Do you think I didn't suffer in going? I've never had such a wrench in my life. Won't you forgive me, Maggie?"

"Forgive! What's the use of talking like that? What's the use of my 'forgiving' you for being what you are?"

"You talk as if you'd found me out in something."

She turned to him, saying very low,

"And haven't you found me out, too? We are face to face now, Willie."

He did not fully understand her. Half in justification, half in apology, he said doggedly,

"I simply had to go."

"Yes, you simply had to go. There was the railway. Oh, what's the use of talking about it?"

"I was afraid you meant to have nothing more to do with me."

"Or you wished it?" she asked quickly.

He started. She had discerned the thoughts that came into his mind in his solitary walks.

"Don't be afraid. I've wished it," she added.

There was a pause; then he, not denying her charge, whispered,

"I can't wish it now – not when I'm with you."

"To have nothing more to do with you! Ah, Willie, I have nothing to do with anything but you."

A swift glance from him told her that her appeal touched him.

"What else is left me? Can I live as I am living?"

"What are we to do?" he asked. "We shall see one another sometimes now. I can't come to your house, you know. But sometimes – "

"At a party – here and there! And the rest of the time I must live at – at home! Home!"

He bent to her, whispering,

"We must arrange – "

"No, no," she replied, passionately. "Don't you see?"

"What?" he asked, puzzled.

"Oh, you don't understand! It's not that. It's not that I can't live without you."

"I never said that," he interposed quickly.

"And yet I suppose it is that. But it's something more. Willie, I can't live with him."

"Does he suspect?" he asked in an eager whisper.

"I don't know. I really don't know. It's worse if he doesn't. Oh, if you knew what I feel when he looks at me and asks – "

"Asks what?"

"Nothing – nothing in words; but, Willie, everything, everything. I shall go mad, if I stay. And then don't you see – ?" She stopped, going on again a moment later. "I've borne it till I could see you. But I can't go on bearing it."

He glanced at her.

"We can't talk about it here," he said. "Everybody will see how agitated you are."

For answer she schooled her face to rigidity, and her hands to motionlessness.

"You must talk about it – here and now," she said. "It's the only time I've seen you since – Dieppe. What are you going to do, Willie?"

He looked round. Then, with a smile, he offered his arm.

"I must take you to have something," he said. "Come, we must walk through the room."

She rose and took his arm. Bowing and smiling, she turned to greet her acquaintances. She stopped to speak to Lord Detchmore, and exchanged a word with her host.

"Yes. What are you going to do?" she asked again, aloud.

They had reached the room where the buffet stood. Mrs. Dennison, after a few words to Lady Valentine, who was still there, sat down on a chair a little remote from the crowd. Ruston brought her a cup of coffee, and stood in front of her, with the half-conscious intention of shielding her from notice. She drank the coffee hastily; its heat brought a slight glow to her face.

"You're going as you planned?" she asked.

He answered in low, dry tones, emptied of all emotion.

"Yes," said he, "I'm going."

She stretched out her hand towards him imploringly.

"Willie, you must take me with you," she said.

He looked down with startled face.

"My God, Maggie!" he exclaimed.

"I can't stay here. I can't stay with him."

Her lips quivered; he took her cup from her (he feared that she would let it fall), and set it on the table. Behind them he heard merry voices; Semingham's was loud among them. The voices were coming near them.

"I must think," he whispered. "We can't talk now. I must see you again."

"Where?" she asked helplessly.

"Carlin's. Come up to-morrow. I can arrange it. For heaven's sake, begin to talk about something."

She looked up in his face.

"I could stand here and tell it to the room," she said, "sooner than live as I live now."

He had no time to answer. Semingham's arm was on his shoulder. Lord Detchmore stood by his side.

"I want," said Semingham, "to introduce Lord Detchmore to you, Mrs. Dennison. It's not at all disinterested of me. You must persuade him – you know what about."

"No, no," laughed the Minister, "I mustn't be talked to; it's highly improper, and I distrust my virtue."

"I'll be bound now that you were talking about Omofaga this very minute," pursued Semingham.

"Of course we were," said Ruston.

"You're a great enthusiast, Mrs. Dennison," smiled Detchmore. "You ought to go out, you know. Can't you persuade your husband to lend you to the expedition?"

Ruston could have killed the man for his malapropos jesting. Maggie Dennison seemed unable to answer it. Semingham broke in lightly,

"It would be a fine chance for proving the quality – and the equality – of women," said he. "I always told Mrs. Dennison that she ought to be Queen of Omofaga."

"And I hope," said Detchmore, with a significant smile, "that there'll soon be a railway to take you there."

Even at that moment, the light of triumph came suddenly gleaming into Ruston's eyes. He looked at Detchmore, who laughed and nodded.

"I think so. I think I shall be able to manage it," he said.

"That's an end to all our troubles," said Semingham. "Come, we'll drink to it."

He signed to a waiter, who brought champagne. Lord Detchmore gallantly pressed a glass on Mrs. Dennison. She shook her head, but took it.

"Long life to Omofaga, and death to its enemies!" cried Semingham in burlesque heroics, and, with a laugh – that was, as his laughs so often were, as much at himself as at the rest of the world – he made a mock obeisance to Willie Ruston, adding, "Moriamur pro rege nostro!" and draining the glass.

Maggie Dennison's eyes sparkled. Behind the mockery in Semingham's jest, behind the only half make-believe homage which Detchmore's humorous glance at Ruston showed, she saw the reality of deference, the acknowledgment of power in the man she loved. For a brief moment she tasted the troubled joy which she had paid so high to win. For a moment her eyes rested on Willie Ruston as a woman's eyes rest on a man who is the world's as well as hers, but also hers as he is not the world's. She sipped the champagne, echoing in her low rich voice, so that the men but just caught the words, "Moriamur pro rege nostro" and gave the glass into Ruston's hand.

A sudden seriousness fell upon them. Detchmore glanced at Semingham, and thence, curiously, at Willie Ruston, whose face was pale and marked with a deep-lined frown. Mrs. Dennison had sunk back in her chair, and her heart rose and fell in agitated breathings. Then Willie Ruston spoke in cool deliberate tones.

"The King there was a Queen," he said. "You've drunk to the wrong person, Semingham. I'll drink it right," and, bowing to Maggie Dennison, he drained his glass. Looking up, he found Detchmore's eyes on him in overpowering wonder.

"If I tell you a story, Lord Detchmore," said he, "you'll understand," and, yielding his place by Maggie Dennison, he took Detchmore with him, and they walked away in talk.

It was an hour later when Lord Detchmore took leave of his host.

"Well, did you hear the story?" asked Semingham.

"Yes; I heard it," said Detchmore, "about the telegram, wasn't it?"

"Yes, and of course, you see, it explains the toast."

"That sounds like a question, Semingham."

"Oh, no. The note of interrogation was – a printer's error."

"It's a remarkable story."

"It really is," said Semingham.

"And – is it the whole story?"

"Well, isn't it enough to justify the toast?"

"It – and she – are enough," said Detchmore. "But, Semingham – "

Lord Semingham, however, took him by the arm, walked him into the hall, got his hat and coat for him, helped him on with them, and wished him good-night. Detchmore submitted without resistance. Just at the last, however, as he fitted his hat on his head, he said,

"You're unusually explicit, Semingham. He goes to Omofaga soon, don't he?"

"Yes, thank God," said Semingham, almost cheerfully.