Tom started.
"What?" he cried, "Mrs. Dennison wants——"
"Yes," Harry went on, "she sent for me to-day, and told me that she saw how I missed you, and that she was sorry that she had—well—sorry for all the trouble, you know. Then she said, 'I wonder if Tom (she called you Tom) bears malice. Tell him Omofaga is quite gone, and I want him to come back, and if he'll come here, I'll go on my knees to him.'"
Harry stopped, smiling joyfully at his wonderful news. Tom wore a doubtful look.
"I can't tell you," said Harry, "what it means to me. It's not only your coming, old chap, though, heaven knows, I'm gladder of that than I've been of anything for months—but you see what it means, Tom? It means—why, it means that we're to be as we were before that fellow came. Tom, she spoke to me more as she used to-day."
His voice faltered; he spoke as an innocent loyal man might of a pardon from some loved capricious Sovereign. He had not understood the disfavour—he had dimly discerned inexplicable anger. Now it was past, and the sun shone again. Tom found himself saying,
"I wish there were more fellows in the world like you, Harry."
Harry's eyes opened in momentary astonishment at the irrelevance, but he was too full of his news and his request to stay for wonder.
"You'll come, Tom?" he asked. "You won't refuse her?" "Could anyone refuse her anything?" was what his tone said. "We want you, Tom," he went on. "Hang it, I've had no one to speak to lately but that Cormack woman. I hate that woman. She's always hinting something—some lie or other, you know."