"Oh, never mind! Of course you don't. Go on."
"And then she said, 'What a fuss! I hope that after all this Omofaga business is over Mr. Loring will come back to us.' Pretty straight for Tom, eh? He turned crimson, and walked right out of the room, and she sat down at the piano and began to play some infernal tune, and that soft-hearted old baby, Harry, blew his nose, and damned the draught."
"And he's going?"
"But," she broke out, "how can he? He's got no money. What'll he live on?"
"Harry offered him as much as he wanted; but he said he had some savings, and wouldn't take a farthing. He said he'd write for papers, or some such stuff."
"He's been with the Dennisons ever since—oh, years and years! Can't you take him? He'd be awfully useful to you."
"My dear girl, I can't offer charity to Tom Loring," said Semingham, and he added quickly, "No more can you, you know."
"I quarrelled with him desperately a week ago," said she mournfully.
"About Ruston?"