ected by the people, I should think
you might."

"I can't afford to give garden-parties and buy lemonade," said Austen,
and they both laughed. He did not think it worth while mentioning Mr.
Braden.

"Sometimes I think you haven't a particle of ambition," she said. "I
like men with ambition."

"I shall try to cultivate it," said Austen.

"You seem to be popular enough."

"Most worthless people are popular, because they don't tread on
anybody's toes."

"Worthless people don't take up poor people's suits, and win them,"
she said. "I saw Zeb Meader the other day, and he said you could be
President of the United States."

"Zeb meant that I was eligible--having been born in this country," said
Austen. "But where did you see him?"

"I--I went to see him."

"All the way to Mercer?"

"It isn't so far in an automobile," she replied, as though in excuse,
and added, still more lamely, "Zeb and I became great friends, you know,
in the hospital."

He did not answer, but wondered the more at the simplicity and kindness
in one brought up as she had been which prompted her to take the trouble
to see the humblest of her friends: nay, to take the trouble to have
humble friends.

The road wound along a ridge, and at intervals was spread before them
the full glory of the September sunset,--the mountains of the west
in blue-black silhouette against the saffron sky, the myriad dappled
clouds, the crimson fading from the still reaches of the river, and the
wine-colour from the eastern hills. Both were silent under the spell,
but a yearning arose within him when he glanced at the sunset glow on
her face: would sunsets hereafter bring sadness?

His thoughts ran riot as the light faded in the west. Hers were not
revealed. And the silence between them seemed gradually to grow into a
pact, to become a subtler and more intimate element than speech. A
faint tang of autumn smoke was in the air, a white mist crept along the
running waters, a silver moon like a new-stamped coin rode triumphant
in the sky, impatient to proclaim her glory; and the shadows under the
ghost-like sentinel trees in the pastures grew blacker. At last Victoria
looked at him.

"You are the only man I know who doesn't insist on talking," she said.
"There are times when--"

"When there is nothing to say," he suggested.

She laughed softly. He tried to remember the sound of it afterwards,
when he rehearsed this phase of the conversation, but couldn't.

"It's