"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 Omof.a.ga 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 Omof.a.ga."

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

"I believe you care--I mean you think more about Omof.a.ga 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?"