"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.