"That's right," said Mr. Tooting. "I guess you know what's up."

Austen did not answer. At the foot of the stairway was the tall form of
Hilary Vane himself, and Austen crossed the rotunda.

"Do you want to see me, Judge?" he asked.

The Honourable Hilary faced about quickly.

"Yes, if you've got any spare time."

"I'll go to your room at half-past nine to-night, if that's convenient."

"All right," said the Honourable Hilary, starting up the stairs.

Austen turned, and found Mr. Hamilton Tooting at his elbow.

CHAPTER XII. Mr. REDBROOK'S PARTY

The storm was over, and the bare trees, when the moon shone between the
hurrying clouds, cast lacelike shadows on the white velvet surface of
the snow as Austen forged his way up the hill to the Widow Peasley's in
keeping with his promise to Mr. Redbrook. Across the street he paused
outside the picket-fence to gaze at the yellow bars of light between the
slats of the windows of the Duncan house. It was hard to realize that
she was there, within a stone's throw of where he was to sleep; but the
strange, half-startled expression in her eyes that afternoon and the
smile--which had in it a curious quality he could not analyze--were
so vivid in his consciousness as to give him pain. The incident, as he
stood there ankle-deep in the snow, seemed to him another inexplicable
and uselessly cruel caprice of fate.

As he pictured her in the dining room behind Mr. Crewe's silver and
cut glass and flowers, it was undoubtedly natural that he should
wonder whether she were thinking of him in the Widow Peasley's lamp-lit
cottage, and he smiled at the contrast. After all, it was the contrast
between his life and hers. As an American of good antecedents and
education, with a Western experience thrown in, social gulfs, although
awkward, might be crossed in spite of opposition from ladies like the
Rose of Sharon,--who had crossed them. Nevertheless, the life which
Victoria led seemingly accentuated--to a man standing behind a
picket-fence in the snow--the voids between.

A stamping of feet in the Widow Peasley's vestibule awoke in him that
sense of the ridiculous which was never far from the surface, and he
made his way thither in mingled amusement and pain. What happened there
is of interest, but may be briefly chronicled. Austen was surprised, on
entering, to find Mrs. Peasley's parlour filled with men; and a single
glance at their faces in the lamplight assured him that they we