or something quite different," said he, laying a hand on his companion's arm. Then he asked suddenly, "What about Dennisons?"
"They're behind me if – "
"Well?"
"If you're not in front of me."
"But if I am, my son?" asked the Baron, almost caressingly.
"Then I leave for Omofaga by the next boat."
"Eh! And for what?"
"Never mind what. You'll find out when you come."
The Baron sighed and tugged his beard.
"You English!" said he. "Your Government won't help you."
"Damn my Government."
"You English!" said the Baron again, his tone struggling between admiration and a sort of oppression, while his face wore the look a man has who sees another push in front of him in a crowd, and wonders how the fellow works his way through.
There was a long pause. Ruston lit his pipe, and, crossing his arms on his breast, blinked at the sun; the Baron puffed away, shooting a glance now and then at his young friend, then he asked,
"Well, my boy, what do you offer?"
"Shares," answered Ruston composedly.
The Baron laughed. The impudence of the offer pleased him.
"Yes, shares, of course. And besides?"
Willie Ruston turned to him.
"I shan't haggle," he announced. "I'll make you one offer, Baron, and it's an uncommon handsome offer for a trunk of waste paper."
"What's the offer?" asked the Baron, smiling with rich subdued mirth.
"Fifty thousand down, and the same in shares fully paid."
"Not enough, my son."
"All right," and Mr. Ruston rose. "Much obliged for your hospitality, Baron," he added, holding out his hand.
"Where are you going?" asked the Baron.
"Omofaga —viâ London."
The Baron caught him by the arm, and whispered in his ear,
"There's not so much in it, first and last."
"Oh, isn't there? Then why don't you take the offer?"
"Is it your money?"
"It's good money. Come, Baron, you've always liked the safe side," and Willie smiled down upon his host.
The Baron positively started. This young man stood over him and told him calmly, face-to-face, the secret of his life. It was true. How he had envied men of real nerve, of faith, of daring! But he had always liked the safe side. Hence he was very rich – and a rather weary old man.
Two days later, Willie Ruston took a cab from Lord Semingham's, and drove to Curzon Street. He arrived at twelve o'clock in the morning. Harry Dennison had gone to a Committee at the House. The butler had just told him so, when a voice cried from within,
"Is it you, Mr. Ruston?"
Mrs. Dennison was standing in the hall. He went in, and followed her into the library.
"Well?" she asked, standing by the table, and wasting no time in formal greetings.
"Oh, it's all right," said he.
"You got my telegram?"
"Your telegram, Mrs. Dennison?" said he with a smile.
"I mean – the telegram," she corrected herself, smiling in her turn.
"Oh, yes," said Ruston, and he took a step towards her. "I've seen Lord Semingham," he added.
"Yes? And these horrid Germans are out of the way?"
"Yes; and Semingham is letting his shooting this year."
She laughed, and glanced at him as she asked,
"Then it cost a great deal?"
"Fifty thousand!"
"Oh, then we can't take Lord Semingham's shooting, or anybody else's. Poor Harry!"
"He doesn't know yet?"
"Aren't you almost afraid to tell him, Mr. Ruston?"
"Aren't you, Mrs. Dennison?"
He smiled as he asked, and Mrs. Dennison lifted her eyes to his, and let them dwell there.
"Why did you do it?" he asked.
"Will the money be lost?"
"Oh, I hope not; but money's always uncertain."
"The thing's not uncertain?"
"No; the thing's certain now."
She sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, and passed her hand over her broad brow.
"Why did you do it?" Ruston repeated; and she laughed nervously.
"I hate going back," she said, twisting her hands in her lap.
He had asked her the question which she had been asking herself without response.
He sat down opposite her, flinging his soft cloth hat – for he had not been home since his arrival in London – on the table.
"What a bad hat!" said Mrs. Dennison, touching it with the end of a forefinger.
"It's done a journey through Omofaga."
"Ah!" she laughed gently. "Dear old hat!"
"Thanks to you, it'll do another soon."
Mrs. Dennison sat up straight in her chair.
"You hope – ?" she began.
"To be on my way in six months," he answered in solid satisfaction.
"And for long?"
"It must take time."
"What must?"
"My work there."
She rose and walked to the window, as she had when she was about to send the telegram. Now also she was breathing quickly, and the flush, once so rare on her cheeks, was there again.
"And we," she said in a low voice, looking out of the window, "shall just hear of you once a year?"
"We shall have regular mails in no time," said he. "Once a year, indeed! Once a month, Mrs. Dennison!"
With a curious laugh, she dashed the blind-tassel against the window. It was not for the sake of hearing of her that he wanted the mails. With a sudden impulse she crossed the room and stood opposite him.
"Do you care that,"
