"Yesterday," observed Adela, "I received a communication from you in your official capacity. It was not a pleasant letter, Lord Semingham."
"I daresay not, madam," said Semingham.
"You told me that the Board regretted to say that, owing to unforeseen hindrances, the work in Omofaga had not advanced as rapidly as had been hoped, and that for the present it was considered advisable to devote all profits to the development of the Company's territory. You added however, that you had the utmost confidence in Mr. Ruston's zeal and ability, and in the ultimate success of the Company."
"Yes; that was the circular," said Semingham. "That is, in fact, for some time likely to be the circular."
They both laughed; then both grew grave, and sat silent side by side.
The drawing-room window was thrown open, and Lady Semingham looked out. She held a letter in her hand.
"Oh, fancy, Adela!" she cried. "Such a terrible thing has happened. I've had a letter from Marjory Valentine—she's in awful grief, poor child."
"Why, what about?" cried Adela.
"Poor young Walter Valentine has died of fever in Omofaga. He caught it at Fort Imperial, and he was dead in a week. Poor Lady Valentine! Isn't it sad?"
Adela and Semingham looked at one another. A moment ago they had jested on the sacrifices demanded by Omofaga; Semingham had seen in the division on the vote for the railway a delightful extravagant burlesque on a larger stage of the fatefulness which he had whimsically read into Willie Ruston's darling scheme. Adela had fallen into his mood, adducing the circular as her evidence. They were taken at their word in grim earnest. Omofaga claimed real tears, as though in conscious malice it had set itself to outplay them at their sport.