The God in the Car: A Novel. Hope Anthony

the ten minutes. Mrs. Dennison seemed tired; her eyes dropped towards the ground, and she reclined in her chair. Ruston was frowning and thrumming at intervals on the table. But presently his brow cleared and he smiled. Mrs. Dennison saw him from under her drooping lids.

      "Well?" she asked in a petulant tone.

      "I believe you were going to fight me for Omofaga."

      "I don't know what I was doing."

      "Is that fellow a fool?"

      "He's a much better man than you'll ever be, Mr. Ruston. Really you might go now."

      "All right, I will. I'm going down to the city to see your husband and Carlin."

      "I'm afraid I've wasted your time."

      She spoke with a bitterness which seemed impossible to miss. But he appeared to miss it.

      "Oh, not a bit, really," he assured her anxiously. "Good-bye," he added, holding out his hand.

      "Good-bye. I've shaken hands once."

      He waited a moment to see if she would speak again, but she said nothing. So he left her.

      As he called a hansom, Mrs. Cormack was leaning over her balcony. She took a little jewelled watch out of her pocket and looked at it.

      "An hour and a quarter!" she cried. "And I know the poor man isn't at home!"

      CHAPTER VII

      AN ATTEMPT TO STOP THE WHEELS

      Miss Adela Ferrars lived in Queen's Gate, in company with her aunt, Mrs. Topham. Mrs. Topham's husband had been the younger son of a peer of ancient descent; and a practised observer might almost have detected the fact in her manner, for she took her station in this life as seriously as her position in the next, and, in virtue of it, assumed a responsibility for the morals of her inferiors which betrayed a considerable confidence in her own. But she was a good woman, and a widow of the pattern most opposite to that of Mrs. Cormack. She dwelt more truly in the grave of her husband than in Queen's Gate, and permitted herself no recreations except such as may privily creep into religious exercises and the ministrations of favourite clergymen; and it is pleasant to think that she was very happy. As may be supposed, however, Adela (who was a good woman in quite another way, and therefore less congenial with her aunt than any mere sinner could have been) and Mrs. Topham saw very little of one another, and would not have thought of living together unless each had been able to supply what the other wanted. Adela found money for the house, and Mrs. Topham lent the shelter of her name to her niece's unprotected condition. There were separate sitting-rooms for the two ladies, and, if rumour were true (which, after all, it usually is not), a separate staircase for the clergy.

      Adela was in her drawing-room one afternoon when Lord Semingham was announced. He appeared to be very warm, and he carried a bundle of papers in his hand. Among the papers there was one of those little smooth white volumes which epitomise so much of the joy and sorrow of this transitory life. He gave himself a shake, as he sat down, and held up the book.

      "The car has begun to move," he observed.

      "Juggernaut's?"

      "Yes; and I have been to see my bankers. I take a trip to the seaside instead of a moor this year, and have let my own pheasant shooting."

      He paused and added,

      "Dennison has not taken my shooting. They go to the seaside too – with the children."

      He paused again and concluded,

      "The Omofaga prospectus will be out to-morrow."

      Adela laughed.

      "Bessie is really quite annoyed," remarked Lord Semingham. "I have seldom seen her so perturbed – but I've sent Ruston to talk to her."

      "And why did you do it?" asked Adela.

      "I should like to tell you a little history," said he.

      And he told her how Mrs. Dennison had sent a telegram to Frankfort. This history was long, for Lord Semingham told it dramatically, as though he enjoyed its quality. Yet Adela made no comment beyond asking,

      "And wasn't she right?"

      "Oh, for the Empire perhaps – for us, it means trips to the seaside."

      He drew his chair a little nearer hers, and dropped his affectation of comic plaintiveness.

      "A most disgusting thing has happened in Curzon Street," he said. "Have you heard?"

      "No; I've seen nothing of Maggie lately. You've all been buried in Omofaga."

      "Hush! No words of ill-omen, please! Well, it's annoyed me immensely I can't think what the foolish fellow means. Tom Loring's going."

      "Tom – Loring – going?" she exclaimed with a punctuated pause between every word. "What in the world for?"