"And who will listen?"
"One man, at least," she cried, in incautious anger. "Ah, you'd like to beat me, wouldn't you?"
"Why suggest the impossible?" he asked, smiling. "I can't beat every——" he paused, and added with deliberateness, "every vulgar-minded woman in London;" and turning his back on her, he sat down and took up a newspaper that lay on the table.
For full five or six minutes Mrs. Cormack sat silent. Willie Ruston glanced through the leading article, and turned the paper, folding it neatly. There was a letter from a correspondent on the subject of the watersheds of Central South Africa, and he was reading it with attention. He thought that he recognised Tom Loring's hand. The watersheds of Omofaga were not given their due. Ah, and here was that old falsehood about arid wastes round Fort Imperial!
"By Jove, it's too bad!" he exclaimed aloud.
Mrs. Cormack, who had for the last few moments been watching him, first with a frown, then with a half-incredulous, half-amazed smile, burst out into laughter.
"Really, one might as well be offended with a grizzly bear!" she cried.
He put down the paper, and met her gaze.
"How in the world," she went on, "does she—there, I beg your pardon. How does anyone endure you, Mr. Ruston?"
As she spoke, before he could answer, the door opened, and Harry Dennison came in. He entered with a hesitating step. After greeting Mrs. Cormack, he advanced towards Ruston. The latter held out his hand, and Harry took it. He did not look Ruston in the eyes.