first three words of the message. This done, she looked round into Semingham's face with a smile of triumph.
"Well, it'll be cheap to send, anyhow," said he.
He got up and motioned Carlin to take his place.
Mrs. Dennison walked back to the window, and he followed her there. They heard Carlin's cry of delight, and Harry Dennison beginning to make excuses and trying to find business reasons for what had been done. Suddenly Tom Loring leapt to his feet and strode swiftly out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Mrs. Dennison heard the sound with a smile of content. She seemed to have no misgivings and no regrets.
"Really," said Lord Semingham, sticking his eye-glass in his eye and regarding her closely, "you ought to be the Queen of Omofaga."
With her slim fingers she began to drum gently on the window-pane.
"I think there's a king already," she said, looking out into the street.
"Oh, yes, a king," he answered with a laugh.
Mrs. Dennison looked round. He did not stop laughing, and presently she laughed just a little herself.
"Oh, of course, it's always that in a woman, isn't it?" she asked sarcastically.
"Generally," he answered, unashamed.
She grew grave, and looked in his face almost – so it seemed to him – as though she sought there an answer to something that puzzled her. He gave her none. She sighed and drummed on the window again; then she turned to him with a sudden bright smile.
"I don't care; I'm glad I did it," she said defiantly.
CHAPTER VI
WHOSE SHALL IT BE?
Probably no one is always wrong; at any rate, Mr. Otto Heather was right now and then, and he had hit the mark when he accused Willie Ruston of "commercialism." But he went astray when he concluded, per saltum, that the object of his antipathy was a money-grubbing, profit-snatching, upper-hand-getting machine, and nothing else in the world. Probably, again, no one ever was. Ruston had not only feelings, but also what many people consider a later development – a conscience. And, whatever the springs on which his conscience moved, it acted as a restraint upon him. Both his feelings and his conscience would have told him that it would not do for him to delude his friends or the public with a scheme which was a fraud. He would have delivered this inner verdict in calm and temperate terms; it would have been accompanied by no disgust, no remorse, no revulsion at the idea having made its way into his mind; it was just that, on the whole, such a thing wouldn't do. The vagueness of the phrase faithfully embodied the spirit of the decision, for whether it wouldn't do, because it was in itself unseemly, or merely because, if found out, it would look unseemly, was precisely one of those curious points with which Mr. Ruston's practical intellect declined to trouble itself. If Omofaga had been a fraud, then Ruston would have whistled it down the wind. But Omofaga was no fraud – in his hands at least no fraud. For, while he believed in Omofaga to a certain extent, Willie Ruston believed in himself to an indefinite, perhaps an infinite, extent. He thought Omofaga a fair security for anyone's money, but himself a superb one. Omofaga without him – or other people's Omofagas – might be a promising speculation; add him, and Omofaga became a certainty. It will be seen, then, that Mr. Heather's inspiration had soon failed – unless, that is, machines can see visions and dream dreams, and melt down hard facts in crucibles heated to seven times in the fires of imagination. But a man may do all this, and yet not be the passive victim of his dreams and imaginings. The old buccaneers – and Adela Ferrars had thought Ruston a buccaneer modernised – dreamt, but they sailed and fought too; and they sailed and fought and won because they dreamt. And if many of their dreams were tinted with the gleam of gold, they were none the less powerful and alluring for that.
Ruston had laid the whole position before Baron von Geltschmidt of Frankfort, with – as it seemed – the utmost candour. He and his friends were not deeply committed in the matter; there was, as yet, only a small syndicate; of course they had paid something for their rights, but, as the Baron knew (and Willie's tone emphasised the fact that he must know) the actual sums paid out of pocket in these cases were not of staggering magnitude; no company was formed yet; none would be, unless all went smoothly. If the Baron and his friends were sure of their ground, and preferred to go on – why, he and his friends were not eager to commit themselves to a long and arduous contest. There must, he supposed, be a give-and-take between them.
"It looks," he said, "as far as I can judge, as if either we should have to buy you out, or you would have to buy us out."
"Perhaps," suggested the Baron, blinking lazily behind his gold spectacles, "we could get rid of you without buying you out."
"Oh, if you drove us to it, by refusing to treat, we should have a shot at that too, of course," laughed Willie Ruston, swallowing a glass of white wine. The Baron had asked him to discuss the matter over luncheon.
"It seems to me," observed the Baron, lighting a cigar, "that people are rather cold about speculations just now."
"I should think so; but this is not a speculation; it's a certainty."
"Why do you tell me that, when you want to get rid of me?"
"Because you won't believe it. Wasn't that Bismarck's way?"
"You are not Bismarck – and a certainty is what the public thinks one."
"Is that philosophy or finance?" asked Ruston, laughing again.
The Baron, who had in his day loved both the subjects referred to, drank a glass of wine and chuckled as he delivered himself of the following doctrine:
"What the public thinks a certainty, is a certainty for the public – that would be philosophy, eh?"
"I believe so. I never read much, and your extract doesn't raise my idea of its value."
"But what the public thinks a certainty, is a certainty – for the promotors – that is finance. You see the difference is simple."
"And the distinction luminous. This, Baron, seems to be the age of finance."
"Ah, well, there are still honest men," said the Baron, with the optimism of age.
"Yes, I'm one – and you're another."
"I'm much obliged. You've been in Omofaga?"
"Oh, yes. And you haven't, Baron."
"Friends of mine have."
"Yes. They came just after I left."
The Baron knew that this statement was true. As his study of Willie Ruston progressed, he became inclined to think that it might be important. Mere right (so far as such a thing could be given by prior treaties) was not of much moment; but right and Ruston together might be formidable. Now the Baron (and his friends were friends much in the way, mutatis mutandis, that Mr. Wagg and Mr. Wenham were friends of the Marquis of Steyne, and may therefore drop out of consideration) was old and rich, and, by consequence, at a great disadvantage with a man who was young and poor.
"I don't see the bearing of that," he observed, having paused for a moment to consider all its bearings.
"It means that you can't have Omofaga," said Willie Ruston. "You were too late, you see."
The Baron smoked and drank and laughed.
"You're a young
