he said, "no, I'm not."

The note of pain in his voice surprised and troubled her. They were
almost in sight of the house.

"I asked you to come to Fairview," she said, assuming a lightness of
tone, "and you never appeared. I thought it was horrid of you to forget,
after we'd been such friends."

"I didn't forget," replied Austen.

"Then you didn't want to come."

He looked into her eyes, and she dropped them.

"You will have to be the best judge of that," he said.

"But what am I to think?" she persisted.

"Think the best of me you can," he answered, as they drew up on the
gravel before the open door of Fairview house. A man was standing in the
moonlight on the porch.

"Is that you, Victoria?"

"Yes, father."

"I was getting worried," said Mr. Flint, coming down on the driveway.

"I'm all right," she said, leaping out of the buggy, "Mr. Vane brought me
home."

"How are you, Hilary?" said Mr. Flint.

"I'm Austen Vane, Mr. Flint," said Austen.

"How are you?" said Mr. Flint, as curtly as the barest politeness
allowed. "What was the matter with your own horse, Victoria?"

"Nothing," she replied, after an instant's pause. Austen wondered many
times whether her lips had trembled. "Mr. Vane asked me to drive with
him, and I came. Won't--won't you come in, Mr. Vane?"

"No, thanks," said Austen, "I'm afraid I have to go back to Ripton."

"Good-by, and thank you," she said, and gave him her hand. As he pressed
it, he thought he felt the slightest pressure in return, and then she
fled up the steps. As he drove away, he turned once to look at the great
house, with its shades closely drawn, as it stood amidst its setting of
shrubbery silent under the moon.

An hour later he sat in Hanover Street before the supper Euphrasia had
saved for him. But though he tried nobly, his heart was not in the
relation, for her benefit, of Mr. Crewe's garden-party.

CHAPTER IX

Mr. CREWE ASSAULTS THE CAPITAL

Those portions of the biographies of great men which deal with the small
beginnings of careers are always eagerly devoured, and for this reason
the humble entry of Mr. Crewe into politics may be of interest. Great
revolutions have had their origins in back cellars; great builders of
railroads have begun life with packs on their shoulders, trudging over
the wilderness which they were to traverse in after years in private
cars. The history of Napoleon Bonaparte has not a Sunday-school moral,
but we can trace th