The Right Honourable Foster Belford, although not, like Mr. Pitt, famous for "ruining Great Britain gratis"—perhaps merely from want of the opportunity—had yet not made a fortune out of political life, and it had suggested a pleasant addition to his means, when Willie Ruston offered him the chairmanship of the Omofaga Company, with the promise of a very comfortable yearly honorarium. He accepted the post with alacrity, but without undue gratitude, for he considered himself well worth the price; and the surprising fact is that he was well worth it. He bulked large to the physical and mental view. His colleagues in the Cabinet had taken a year or two to find out his limits, and the public had not found them out yet. Therefore he was not exactly a fool. On the other hand, the limits were certainly there, and so there was no danger of his developing an inconvenient greatness. As has been previously hinted, he enjoyed Harry Dennison's entire confidence; and he could be relied upon not to understand Lord Semingham's irreverence. Thus his appointment did good to the Omofaga as well as to himself, and only the initiated winked when Willie Ruston hid himself behind this imposing figure and pulled the strings.

"The best of it is," Ruston remarked to Semingham, "that you and Carlin will have the whole thing in your own hands when I've gone out. Belford won't give you any trouble."

"But, my dear fellow, I don't want it all in my hands. I want to grow rich out of it without any trouble."

Ruston twisted his cigar in his mouth. The prospect of immediate wealth flowing in from Omofaga was, as Lord Semingham knew very well, not assured.

"Loring's stopped hammering us," said Ruston; "that's one thing."

"Oh, you found out he wrote them?"

"Yes; and uncommonly well he did it, confound him. I wish we could get that fellow. There's a good deal in him."

"You see," observed Lord Semingham, "he doesn't like you. I don't know that you went the right way about to make him."

The remark sounded blunt, but Semingham had learnt not to waste delicate phrases on Willie Ruston.

"Well, I didn't know he was worth the trouble."

"One path to greatness is said to be to make no enemies."

"A very roundabout one, I should think. I'm going to make a good many enemies in Omofaga."

Lord Semingham suddenly rose, put on his hat, and left the offices of the Company. Mrs. Dennison had, a little while ago, complained to him that she ate, drank, breathed and wore Omofaga. He had detected the insincerity of her complaint, but he was becoming inclined to echo it in all genuineness on his own account. There were moments when he wondered how and why he had allowed this young man to lead him so far and so deep; moments when a convulsion of Nature, redistributing Africa and blotting out Omofaga, would have left him some thousands of pounds poorer in purse, but appreciably more cheerful in spirit. Perhaps matters would mend when the Local Administrator had departed to his local administration, and only the mild shadow of him which bore the name of Carlin trod the boards of Queen Street, Cheapside. Ruston began to be oppressive. The restless energy and domineering mind of the man wearied Semingham's indolent and dilettante spirit, and he hailed the end of the season as an excellent excuse for putting himself beyond the reach of his colleague for a few weeks. Yet, the more he quailed, the more he trusted; and when a very great man, holding a very great office, met him in the House of Lords, and expressed the opinion that when the Company and Mr. Ruston went to Omofaga they would find themselves in a pretty hornets' nest, Lord Semingham only said that he should be sorry for the hornets.

"Don't ask us to fetch your man out for you, that's all," said the very great man.

And for an instant Lord Semingham, still feeling that load upon his shoulders, fancied that it would be far from his heart to prefer such a request. There might be things less just and fitting than that Willie Ruston and those savage tribes of Omofaga should be left to fight out the quarrel by themselves, the civilised world standing aloof. And the dividends—well, of course, there were the dividends, but Lord Semingham had in his haste forgotten them.

"Ah, you don't know Ruston," said he, shaking a forefinger at the great man.

"Don't I? He came every day to my office for a fortnight."

"Wanted something?"

"Yes, he wanted something certainly, or he wouldn't have come, you know."

"Got it, I suppose?" asked Lord Semingham, in a tone curiously indicative of resignation rather than triumph.

"Well, yes; I did, at last, not without hesitation, accede to his request."

Then Lord Semingham, with no apparent excuse, laughed in the face of the great man, left the House (much in the same sudden way as he had left Queen Street, Cheapside), and passed rapidly through the lobbies till he reached Westminster Hall. Here he met a young man, clad to perfection, but looking sad. It was Evan Haselden. With a sigh of relief at meeting no one of heavier metal, Semingham stopped him and began to talk. Evan's melancholy air enveloped his answers in a mist of gloom. Moreover there was a large streak on his hat, where the nap had been rubbed the wrong way; evidently he was in trouble. Presently he seized his friend by the arm, and proposed a walk in the Park.

"But are you paired?" asked Semingham; for an important division was to occur that day in the Commons.

"No," said Evan fiercely. "Come along;" and Lord Semingham went, exclaiming inwardly, "A girl!"

"I'm the most miserable devil alive," said Evan, as they left the Horse Guards on the right hand.

Semingham put up his eyeglass.

"I've always regarded you as the favourite of fortune," he said. "What's the matter?"

The matter unfolded itself some half-hour after they had reached the Row and sat down. It came forth with difficulty; pride obstructed the passage, and something better than pride made the young man diffuse in the telling of his trouble. Lord Semingham grew very grave indeed. Let who would laugh at happy lovers, he had a groan for the unfortunate—a groan with reservations.

"She said she liked me very much, but didn't feel—didn't, you know, look up to me enough, and so on," said poor Evan in puzzled pain. "I—I can't think what's come over her. She used to be quite different. I don't know what she means by talking like that."

Lord Semingham played a tune on his knee with the fingers of one hand. He was waiting.

"Young Val's gone back on me too," moaned Evan, who took the brother's deposal of him hardly more easily than the sister's rejection. Suddenly he brightened up; a smile, but a bitter one, gleamed across his face.

"I think I've put one spoke in his wheel, though," he said.

"Ruston's?" inquired Semingham, still playing his tune.

"Yes. A fortnight ago, old Detchmore" (Lord Detchmore was the very great man before referred to) "asked me if I knew Loring. You know Ruston's been trying to get Detchmore to back him up in making a railway to Omofaga?"

"I didn't know," said Lord Semingham, with an unmoved face.

"You're a director, aren't you?"

"Yes. Go on, my dear boy."

"And Detchmore had seen Loring's articles. Well, I took Tom to him, and we left him quite decided to have nothing to do with it. Oh, by Jove, though, I forgot; I suppose you'd be on the other side there, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose I should, but it doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I fancy Ruston's got what he wanted;" and Lord Semingham related what he had heard from the Earl of Detchmore.

Evan listened in silence, and, the tale ended, the two lay back in their chairs, and idly looked at the passing carriages. At last Lord Semingham spoke.

"He's going to Omofaga in a few months," he observed. "And, Evan, you don't mean that he's your rival at the Valentines'?"

"I'm not so sure, confound him. You know how pretty she is."

Semingham knew that she was pretty; but he also knew that she was poor, and thought that she was, if not too insipid (for he recognised the unusual taste of his own mind), at least too immature to carry Willie Ruston off his feet, and into a love affair that promised no worldly gain.

"I asked Mrs. Dennison what she thought," pursued Evan.

"Oh, you did?"

"But the idea seemed quite a new one to her. That's good, you know. I expect she'd have noticed if he'd shown any signs."

Lord Semingham thought it very likely.

"Anyhow," Evan continued, "Marjory's awfully keen about him."

"He'll be in Omofaga in three or four months," Semingham repeated. It was all the consolation he could offer.

Presently Evan got up and strode away. Lord Semingham sat on, musing on the strange turmoil the coming of the man had made in the little corner of the world he dwelt in. He was reminded of what was said concerning Lord Byron by another poet. They all felt Ruston. His intrusion into the circle had changed all the currents, so that sympathy ran no longer between old friends, and hearts answered to a new stimulus. Some he attracted, some he repelled; none did he leave alone. From great to small his influence ran; from the expulsion of Tom Loring to the christening of the Omofaga mantle. Semingham had an acute sense of the absurdity of it all, but he had seen absurd things happen too often to be much relieved by his intuition. And when absurd things happen, they have consequences just as other things have. And the most exasperating fact was the utter unconsciousness of the disturber. He had no mystery-airs, no graces, no seeming fascinations. He was relentlessly business-like, unsentimental, downright; he took it all as a matter of course. He did not pry for weak spots. He went right on—on and over—and seemed not to know when he was going over. A very Juggernaut indeed! Semingham thanked Adela for teaching him the word.

He was suddenly roused by the merry laughter of children. Three or four little ones were scampering along the path in the height of glee. As they came up, he recognised them. He had seen them once before. They were Carlin's children. Five there were, he counted now; three ran ahead; two little girls held each a hand of Willie Ruston's, who was laughing as merrily as his companions. The whole group knew Semingham, and the eldest child was by his knees in a moment.

"We've been to the Exhibition," she cried exultantly; "and now Willie—Mr. Ruston, I mean—is taking us to have ices in Bond Street."

"A human devil!" said the astonished man to himself, as Willie Ruston plumped down beside him, imploring a brief halt, and earnestly asseverating that his request was in good faith, and concealed no lurking desire to evade the ices.

"I met young Haselden as we came along," Ruston observed, wiping his brow.

"Ah! Yes, he's been with me."

The children had wandered a few yards off, and stood impatiently looking at their hero.

"He's had a bit of a facer, I fancy," pursued Willie Ruston. "Heard about it?"

"Something."

"It'll come all right, I should think," said Ruston, in a comfortably careless tone. "He's not a bad fellow, you know, though he's not over-appreciative of me." Lord Semingham found no comment. "I hear you're going to Dieppe next week?" asked Ruston.

"Yes. My wife and Mrs. Dennison have put their heads together, and fixed on that. You know we're economising."

Ruston laughed.

"I suppose you are," he said through his white teeth. The idea seemed to amuse him. "We may meet there. I've promised to run over for a few days if I can."

"The deuce you have!" would have expressed his companion's feelings; but Lord Semingham only said, "Oh, really?"

"All right, I'm coming directly," Ruston cried a moment later to his young friends, and, with a friendly nod, he rose and went on his way. Lord Semingham watched the party till it disappeared through the Park gates, hearing in turn the children's shrill laugh and Willie Ruston's deeper notes. The effect of the chance meeting was to make his fancies and his fancied feelings look still more absurd. That he perceived at once; the devil appeared so very human in such a mood and such surroundings. Yet that attribute—that most demoniac attribute—of ubiquity loomed larger and larger. For not even a foreign land—not even a watering-place of pronounced frivolity—was to be a refuge. The man was coming to Dieppe! And on whose bidding? Semingham had no doubt on whose bidding; and, out of the airy forms of those absurd fancies, there seemed to rise a more material shape, a reality, a fabric not compounded wholly of dreams, but mixed of stuff that had made human comedies and human tragedies since the world began. Mrs. Dennison had bidden Willie Ruston to Dieppe. That was Semingham's instant conclusion; she had bidden him, not merely by a formal invitation, or by a simple acquiescence, but by the will and determination which possessed her to be of his mind and in his schemes. And perhaps Evan Haselden's innocent asking of her views had carried its weight also. For nearly an hour Semingham sat and mused. For awhile he thought he would act; but how should he act? And why? And to what end? Since what must be must, and in vain do we meddle with fate. An easy, almost eager, recognition of the inevitable in the threatened, of the necessary in everything that demanded effort for its avoidance, had stamped his life and grown deep into his mind. Wherefore now, faced with possibilities that set his nerves on edge, and wrung his heart for good friends, he found nothing better to do than shrug his shoulders and thank God that his own wife's submission to the man went no deeper than the inside lining of that famous Omofaga mantle, nor his own than the bottom, or near the bottom, of his trousers' pocket.

"Though that, in faith," he exclaimed ruefully, as at last he rose, "is, in this world of ours, pretty deep!"