As the sentence went on, the smile became more fixed and less pleasant.

"You ought to be ashamed to talk like that," said Adela.

Mrs. Dennison walked up the room and down again.

"So I am," she said, pausing to look down on Adela, and then resuming her walk.

"I wish to goodness this Omof.a.ga affair--yes, and Mr. Ruston too--had never been invented. It seems to set us all wrong."

"Wrong!" cried Mrs. Dennison. "Oh, yes, if it's wrong to have something one can take a little interest in!"

"You're hopeless to-day, Maggie. I shall go away. What did you take his hand for?"

"Nothing. I tell you I was excited."

"Well, I think he's a man one ought to keep cool with."

"Oh, he's cool enough. He'll keep you cool."

"But he didn't----"

"Oh, don't--pray don't!" cried Mrs. Dennison.

Adela took her leave; and, as luck would have it, opened the door just as Tom Loring was walking downstairs with an enormous load of dusty papers in his hands. She pulled the door close behind her hastily, exclaiming,

"Why, I thought you'd gone!"

"So you've heard? I'm just putting things shipshape. I go this evening."

"Well, I'm sorry--still, for your sake, I'm glad."

"Why?"

"You may do something on your own account now."

"I don't want to do anything," said Tom obstinately.

"Come and see me some day. I've forgiven you, you know."

"So I will."

"Mr. Loring, are you going to say good-bye to Maggie?"

"I don't know. I suppose so." Then he added, detecting Adela's unexpressed hope, "Oh, it's not a bit of use, you know."

Adela pa.s.sed on, and, later, Loring, having finished his work and being about to go, sought out Mrs. Dennison.

"You're determined to go, are you?" she asked, with the air of one who surrenders before an inexplicable whim.

"Yes," said Tom. "You know I must go."

"Why?"

"I'm not a saint--nor a rogue; if I were either, I might stay."

"Or even if you were a sensible man," suggested Maggie Dennison.

"Being merely an honest man, I think I'll go. I've tried to put all Harry's things right for him, and to make it as easy for him to get along as I can."

"Can he find his papers and blue-books and things?"

"Oh, yes; and I got abstracts ready on all the things he cares about."

"He'll miss you horribly. Ah, well!"

"I suppose a little; but, really, I think he'll learn to get along----"

Mrs. Dennison interrupted with a laugh.

"Do you know," she asked, "what we remind me of? Why, of a husband and wife separating, and wondering whether the children will miss poor papa--though poor papa insists in going, and mamma is sure he must."

"I never mentioned the children," said Tom angrily.

"I know you didn't."

Tom looked at her for an instant.

"For G.o.d's sake," said he, "don't let him see that!"

"Oh, how you twist things!" she cried in impatient protest.

Tom only shook his head. The charge was not sincere.

"Good-bye, Tom," she went on after a pause. "I believe, some day or other, you'll come back--or, at any rate, come and live next door--instead of Berthe Cormack, you know. But I don't know in what state you'll find us."

"I'd just like to tell you one thing, if I may," said Tom, resolutely refusing to meet the softened look in her eyes with any answering friendliness.

"Yes?"

"You've got one of the best fellows in the world for a husband."

"Well, I know that, I suppose, at least, as well as you do."

"That's all. Good-bye."

Without more he left her. She drew the window-curtain aside and watched him get into his cab and be driven away. The house was very still. Her husband was in his place at Westminster, and the children had gone to a party. She went upstairs to the nursery, hoping to find something to criticise; then to Harry's dressing-room, where she filled his pin-cushion with pins and put fresh water to the flowers in the vase.

She could find no other offices of wife or mother to do, and she presently found herself looking into Tom's room, which was very bare and desolate, stripped of the homelike growth of a five years' tenancy. Her excitement was over; she felt terribly like a child after a tantrum; she flung open the window of the room and stood listening to the noise of the town. It was the noise of happy people, who had plenty to do; or of happier still, who did not want to do anything, and thus found content.

She turned away and walked downstairs with a step as heavy as physical weariness brings with it. It came as a curious aggravation--light itself, but gaining weight from its surroundings--that, for once in a way, she had no engagements that evening. All the tide seemed to be flowing by, leaving her behind high and dry on the sh.o.r.e. Even the children had their party, even Harry his toy at Westminster; and Willie Ruston was working might and main to give a good start to Omof.a.ga. Only of her had the world no need--and no heed.