"Look here," said Willie Ruston, "Omofaga's mine. I'll find you another place, if you like, when I've put this job through."
A luxury of pleasure rippled through her laugh. She darted out her hand and caught his.
"No. I like Omofaga too!" she said, and as she said it, the door suddenly opened, and in walked Tom Loring—that is to say—in Tom Loring was about to walk; but when he saw what he did see, he stood still for a moment, and then, without a single word, either of greeting or apology, he turned his back, walked out again, and shut the door behind him. His entrance and exit were so quick and sudden, that Mrs. Dennison had hardly dropped Willie Ruston's hand before he was gone; she had certainly not dropped it before he came.
Willie Ruston sat down squarely in a chair. Mrs. Dennison's hot mood had been suddenly cooled. She would not ask him to go, but she glanced at the hat that had been through Omofaga. He detected her.
"I shall stay ten minutes," he observed.
She understood and nodded assent. Very little was said during the ten minutes. Mrs. Dennison seemed tired; her eyes dropped towards the ground, and she reclined in her chair. Ruston was frowning and thrumming at intervals on the table. But presently his brow cleared and he smiled. Mrs. Dennison saw him from under her drooping lids.
"Well?" she asked in a petulant tone.
"I believe you were going to fight me for Omofaga."
"I don't know what I was doing."
"Is that fellow a fool?"