"Yes, do write."
Willie Ruston smiled tolerantly, but his smile was suddenly cut short, for Mrs. Dennison, not looking at him but out to sea, asked herself in a whisper, which was plainly not meant for him though he heard it,
"How shall I bear it?"
He had been tilting his chair back; he brought the front legs suddenly on to the ground again and asked,
"Bear what?"
She started to find he had heard, but attempted no evasion.
"When you've gone," she answered in simple directness.
He looked at her with raised eyebrows. There was no embarrassment in her face, and no tremble in her voice; and no passion could he detect in either.
"How flat it will all be," she added in a tone of utter weariness.
He was half-pleased, half-piqued at the way she seemed to look at him. It not only failed to satisfy him, but stirred a new dissatisfaction. It hinted much, but only, it seemed to him, to negative it. It left Omofaga still all in all, and him of interest only because he would talk of and work for Omofaga, and keep the Omofaga atmosphere about her. Now this was wrong, for Omofaga existed for him, not he for Omofaga; that was the faith of true disciples.