Had Lord Semingham and Harry Dennison taken an opportunity which many persons would have thought that they had a right to take, they might have shifted the burden of the Baron's douceur and of sundry other not trifling expenses on to the shoulders of the public, and enjoyed their moors that year after all; for at the beginning Omofaga obtained such a moderate and reasonable "boom" as would have enabled them to perform the operation known as "unloading" (and literary men must often admire the terse and condensed expressiveness of "City" metaphors) with much profit to themselves. But either they conceived this course of conduct to be beneath them, or they were so firm of faith in Mr. Ruston that they stood to their guns and their shares, and took their seats at the Board, over which Mr. Foster Belford magniloquently presided, still possessed of the strongest personal interest in the success of Omofaga. Lady Semingham, having been made aware that Omofaga shares were selling at forty shillings a piece, was quite unable to understand why Alfred and Mr. Dennison did not sell all they had, and thereby procure moors or whatever else they wanted. Willie Ruston had to be sent for again, and when he told her that the same shares would shortly be worth five pounds (which he did with the most perfect confidence), she was equally at a loss to see why they were on sale to anybody who chose to pay forty shillings. Ruston, who liked to make everybody a convert to his own point of view, spent the best part of an afternoon conversing with the little lady, but, when he came away, he left her placidly admiring the Omofaga mantle which had just arrived from the milliner's, and promised to create an immense sensation.

"I believe she's all gown," said he despairingly, at the Valentines in the evening. "If you undressed her there'd be no one there."

"Well, there oughtn't to be many people," said young Sir Walter, with a hearty laugh at his boyish joke.

"Walter, how can you!" cried Marjory.

This little conversation, trivial though it be, has its importance, as indicating the very remarkable change which had occurred in young Sir Walter. There at least Ruston had made a notable convert, and he had effected this result by the simple but audacious device of offering to take Sir Walter with him to Omofaga. Sir Walter was dazzled. Between spending another year or two at Oxford in statu pupillari, vexed by schools and disciplined by proctors—between being required to be in by twelve at night and unable to visit London without permission—between this unfledged state and the position of a man among the men who were in the vanguard of the empire there rolled a flood; and the flood was mighty enough to sweep away all young Sir Walter's doubts about Mr. Ruston being a gentleman, to obliterate Evan Haselden's sneers, to uproot his influence—in a word, to transform that youthful legislator from a paragon of wisdom and accomplishments into "a good chap, but rather a lot of side on, you know."

Marjory, having learnt from literature that hers was supposed to be the fickle sex, might well open her eyes and begin to feel very sorry indeed for poor Evan Haselden. But she also was under the spell and hailed the sun of glory rising for her brother out of the mists of Omofaga; and if poor Lady Valentine shed some tears before Willie Ruston convinced her of the rare chance it was for her only boy—and a few more after he had so convinced her—why, it would be lucky if these were the only tears lost in the process of developing Omofaga; for it seems that great enterprises must always be watered by the tears of mothers and nourished on the blood of sons. Sic fortis Etruria crevit.

One or two other facts may here be chronicled about Omofaga. There were three great meetings: one at the Cannon Street Hotel, purely commercial; another at the Westminster Town Hall, commercial-political; a third at Exeter Hall, commercial-religious. They were all very successful, and, taken together, were considered to cover the ground pretty completely. The most unlike persons and the most disparate views found a point of union in Omofaga. Adela Ferrars put three thousand pounds into it, Lady Valentine a thousand. Mr. Carlin finally disposed of the coal business, and his wife dreamt of the workhouse all night and scolded herself for her lack of faith all the morning. Willie Ruston spoke of being off in five months, and Sir Walter immediately bought a complete up-country outfit.

Suddenly there was a cloud. Omofaga began to be "written down," in the most determined and able manner. The anonymous detractor—in such terms did Mr. Foster Belford refer to the writer—used the columns of a business paper of high standing, and his letters, while preserving a judicial and temperate tone, were uncompromisingly hostile and exceedingly damaging. A large part of Omofaga (he said) had not been explored, indeed, nobody knew exactly what was and what was not Omofaga; let the shareholders get what comfort they could out of that; but, so far as Omofaga had been explored, it had been proved to be barren of all sources of wealth. The writer grudgingly admitted that it might feed a certain head of cattle, though he hastened to add that the flies were fatal all the hot months; but as for gold, or diamonds, or any such things as companies most love, there were none, and if there were, they could not be won, and if they could be won no European could live to win them. It was a timid time on the markets then, and people took fright easily. In a few days any temptation that might have assailed Lord Semingham and Harry Dennison lost its power. Omofagas were far below par, and Lady Semingham was entreating her husband to buy all he could against the hour when they should be worth five pounds a piece, because, as she said, Mr. Ruston was quite sure that they were going to be, and who knew more about it than Mr. Ruston?

It was just about this time that Tom Loring, who had vanished completely for a week or two, after his departure from Curzon Street, came up out of the depths and called on Adela Ferrars in Queen's Gate; and her first remark showed that she was a person of some perspicacity.

"Isn't this rather small of you?" she asked, putting on her eyeglasses and finding an article which she indicated. "You may not like him, but still——"

"How like a woman!" said Tom Loring in the tone of a man who expects and, on the whole, welcomes ill-usage. "How did you know it was mine?"

"It's so like that article of Harry Dennison's. I think you might put your name, anyhow."

"Yes, and rob what I say of all weight. Who knows my name?"

Adela felt an impulse to ask him angrily why nobody knew his name, but she inquired instead what he thought he knew about Omofaga. She put this question in a rather offensive tone.

It appeared that Tom Loring knew a great deal about Omofaga, all, in fact, that there was to be learnt from blue-books, consular reports, gazetteers, travels, and other heavy works of a like kind.

"You've been moling in the British Museum," cried Adela accusingly.

Tom admitted it without the least shame.

"I knew this thing was a fraud and the man a fraud, and I determined to show him up if I could," said he.

"It's because you hate him."

"Then it's lucky for the British investor that I do hate him."

"It's not lucky for me," said Adela.

"You don't mean to say you've been——"

"Fool enough? Yes, I have. No, don't quarrel again. It won't ruin me, anyhow. Are the things you say really true?"

Tom replied by another question.

"Do you think I'd write 'em if I didn't believe they were?"

"No, but you might believe they were because you hate him."

Tom seemed put out at this idea. It is not one that generally suggests itself to a man when his own views are in question.

"I admit I began because I hate him," he said, with remarkable candour, after a moment's consideration; "but, by Jove, as I went on I found plenty of justification. Look here, you mustn't tell anyone I'm writing them."

Tom looked a little embarrassed as he made this request.

Adela hesitated for a moment. She did not like the request, either.

"No, I won't," she said at last; and she added, "I'm beginning to think I hate him, too. He's turning me into an hospital."

"What?"

"People he wounds come to me. Old Lady Valentine came and cried because Walter's going to Omofaga; and Evan came and—well, swore because Walter worships Mr. Ruston; and Harry Dennison came and looked bewildered, and—you know—because—oh, because of you, and so on."

"And now I come, don't I?"

"Yes, and now you."

"And has Mrs. Dennison come?" asked Tom, with a look of disconcerting directness.

"No," snapped Adela, and she looked at the floor, whereupon Tom diverted his eyes from her and stared at the ceiling.

Presently he searched in his waistcoat pocket and brought out a little note.

"Read that," he said, a world of disgust in his tone.

"'I told you so.—B.C.'" read Adela. "Oh, it's that Cormack woman!" she cried.

"You see what it means? She means I've been got rid of in order that——" Tom stopped, and brought his clenched fist down on his opened palm. "If I thought it, I'd shoot the fellow," he ended.

He looked at her for the answer to his unexpressed question.

Adela turned the pestilential note over and over in her fingers, handling it daintily as though it might stain.

"I don't think he means it," she said at last, without trying to blink the truth of Tom's interpretation.

Tom rose and began to walk about.

"Women beat me," he broke out. "I don't understand 'em. How should I? I'm not one of these fellows who catch women's fancy—thank God!"

"If you continue to dislike the idea, you'll probably manage to escape the reality," observed Adela, and her tone, for some reason or other—perhaps merely through natural championship of her sex—was rather cold and her manner stiff.

"Oh, some women are all right;" and Adela acknowledged the concession with a satirical bow. "Look here, can't you help?" he burst out. "Tell her what a brute he is."

"Oh, you do not understand women!"

"Well, then, I shall tell Dennison. He won't stand nonsense of that kind."

"You'll deserve horsewhipping if you do," remarked Adela.

"Then what am I to do?"

"Nothing. In fact, Mr. Loring, you have no genius for delicate operations."

"Of course I'm a fool."

Adela played with her pince-nez for a minute or two, put it on, looked at him, and then said, with just a touch of unwonted timidity in her voice,

"Anyhow, you happen to be a gentleman."

Poor Tom had been a good deal buffeted of late, and a friendly stroking was a pleasant change. He looked up with a smile, but as he looked up Adela looked away.

"I think I'll stop those articles," said he.

"Yes, do," she cried, a bright smile on her face.

"They've pretty well done their work, too."

"Don't! Don't spoil it! But—but don't you get money for them?"

Tom was in better humour now. He held out his hand with his old friendly smile.

"Oh, wait till I am in the workhouse, and then you shall take me out."

"I don't believe I did mean that," protested Adela.

"You always mean everything that—that the best woman in the world could mean," and Tom wrung her hand and disappeared.

Adela's hand was rather crushed and hurt, and for a moment she stood regarding it ruefully.

"I thought he was going to kiss it," she said. "One of those fellows who take women's fancy, perhaps, would have! And—and it wouldn't have hurt so much. Ah, well, I'm very glad he's going to stop the articles."

And the articles did stop; and perhaps things might have fallen out worse than that an honest man, driven hard by bitterness, should do a useful thing from a doubtful motive, and having done just enough of it, should repent and sin no more; for unquestionably the articles prevented a great many persons from paying an unduly high price for Omofaga shares. This line of thought seems defensible, but it was not Adela's. She rejoiced purely that Tom should turn away from the doubtful thing; and if Tom had been a man of greater acuteness, it would have struck him as worthy of note, perhaps even of gratification, that Miss Adela Ferrars should care so much whether he did or did not do doubtful things. But then Miss Ferrars—for it seems useless to keep her secret any longer, the above recorded interview having somewhat impaired its mystery—was an improbably romantic person—such are to be met even at an age beyond twenty-five—and was very naturally ashamed of her weakness. People often are ashamed of being better than their surroundings. Being better they feel better, and feeling better they feel priggish, and then they try not to be better, and happily fail. So Adela was very shamefaced over her ideal, and would as soon have thought of preaching on a platform—of which practice she harboured a most bigoted horror—as of proclaiming the part that love must play in her marriage. The romantic resolve lay snug in its hidden nest, sheltered from cold gusts of ridicule by a thick screen of worldly sayings, and, when she sent away a suitor, of worldly-wise excuses. Thus no one suspected it, not even Tom Loring, although he thought her "the best of women;" a form of praise, by the way, that gave the lady honoured by it less pleasure than less valuable commendation might have done. Why best? Why not most charming? Well, probably because he thought the one and didn't think the other. She was the best; but there was another whose doings and whose peril had robbed Tom Loring of his peace, and made him do the doubtful thing. Why had he done it? Or (and Adela smiled mockingly at this resurrection of the Old Woman), if he did do it, why did he do it for Maggie Dennison? She didn't believe he would ever do a doubtful thing for her. For that she loved him; but perhaps she would have loved him—well, not less—if he did; for how she would forgive him!

After half-an-hour of this kind of thing—it was her own summary of her meditations—she dressed, went out to dinner, sat next Evan Haselden, and said cynical things all the evening; so that, at last Evan told her that she had no more feeling than a mummified Methodist. This was exactly what she wanted.