"I can't manage it. I should miss the boat. I must write her a line."
"Oh, she'll never forgive you," cried Lady Semingham.
"Oh, yes, she will," he laughed. "It's for Omofaga, you know. Good-bye. Good-bye. I'm awfully sorry to go. Good-bye."
He was gone. It was difficult to realise at first. His presence, the fact of him, had filled so large a space; it had been the feature of the place from the day he had joined them. It had been their interest and their incubus.
For a moment the three stood staring at one another; then Semingham, with a curious laugh, turned on his heel and went into the house. His wife unfolded yesterday's Morning Post and began to read.
"Come for a stroll," said Tom Loring to Adela.
She accompanied him in silence, and they walked a hundred yards or more before she spoke.
"What a blessing!" she said then. "I wonder if your coming sent him away?"
"No, it was genuine," declared Tom, with conviction.
"Then I was very wrong, or he's a most extraordinary man. I can't talk to you about it, Mr. Loring, but you told me I might send. And I did think it—desirable—when I wrote. I did, indeed. I hope you're not very much annoyed?"