Mr. Crewe's Career — Complete. Winston Churchill

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      “What I want to know is, why you accepted such a silly case,” said Victoria.

      Austen looked quizzically into her upturned face, and she dropped her eyes.

      “That's exactly what I should have asked myself—after a while,” he said.

      She laughed with a delicious understanding of “after a while.”

      “I suppose you think me frightfully forward,” she said, in a lowered voice, “inviting myself to drive and asking you such a question when I scarcely know you. But I just couldn't go on with Mrs. Pomfret—she irritated me so—and my front teeth are too valuable to drive with Humphrey Crewe.”

      Austen smiled, and secretly agreed with her.

      “I should have offered, if I had dared,” he said.

      “Dared! I didn't know that was your failing. I don't believe you even thought of it.”

      “Nevertheless, the idea occurred to me, and terrified me,” said Austen.

      “Why?” she asked, turning upon him suddenly. “Why did it terrify you?”

      “I should have been presuming upon an accidental acquaintance, which I had no means of knowing you wished to continue,” he replied, staring at his horse's head.

      “And I?” Victoria asked. “Presumption multiplies tenfold in a woman, doesn't it?”

      “A woman confers,” said Austen.

      She smiled, but with a light in her eyes. This simple sentence seemed to reveal yet more of an inner man different from some of those with whom her life had been cast. It was an American point of view—this choosing to believe that the woman conferred. After offering herself as his passenger Victoria, too, had had a moment of terror: the action had been the result of an impulse which she did not care to attempt to define. She changed the subject.

      “You have been winning laurels since I saw you last summer,” she said. “I hear incidentally you have made our friend Zeb Meader a rich man.”

      “As riches go, in the town of Mercer,” Austen laughed. “As for my laurels, they have not yet begun to chafe.”

      Here was a topic he would have avoided, and yet he was curious to discover what her attitude would be. He had antagonized her father, and the fact that he was the son of Hilary Vane had given his antagonism prominence.

      “I am glad you did it for Zeb.”

      “I should have done it for anybody—much as I like Zeb,” he replied briefly.

      She glanced at him.

      “It was—courageous of you,” she said.

      “I have never looked upon it in that light,” he answered. “May I ask you how you heard of it?”

      She coloured, but faced the question.

      “I heard it from my father, at first, and I took an interest—on Zeb Meader's account,” she added hastily.

      Austen was silent.

      “Of course,” she continued, “I felt a little like boasting of an 'accidental acquaintance' with the man who saved Zeb Meader's life.”

      Austen laughed. Then he drew Pepper down to a walk, and turned to her.

      “The power of making it more than an accidental acquaintance lies with you,” he said quietly.

      “I have always had an idea that aggression was a man's prerogative,” Victoria answered lightly. “And seeing that you have not appeared at Fairview for something over a year, I can only conclude that you do not choose to exercise it in this case.”

      Austen was in a cruel quandary.

      “I did wish to come,” he answered simply, “but—the fact that I have had a disagreement with your father has—made it difficult.” “Nonsense” exclaimed Victoria; “just because you have won a suit against his railroad. You don't know my father, Mr. Vane. He isn't the kind of man with whom that would make any difference. You ought to talk it over with him. He thinks you were foolish to take Zeb Meader's side.”

      “And you?” Austen demanded quickly.

      “You see, I'm a woman,” said Victoria, “and I'm prejudiced—for Zeb Meader. Women are always prejudiced—that's our trouble. It seemed to me that Zeb was old, and unfortunate, and ought to be compensated, since he is unable to work. But of course I suppose I can't be expected to understand.”

      It was true that she could not be expected to understand. He might not tell her that his difference with Mr. Flint was not a mere matter of taking a small damage suit against his railroad, but a fundamental one. And Austen recognized that the justification of his attitude meant an arraignment of Victoria's father.

      “I wish you might know my father better, Mr. Vane,” she went on, “I wish you might know him as I know him, if it were possible. You see, I have been his constant companion all my life, and I think very few people understand him as I do, and realize his fine qualities. He makes no attempt to show his best side to the world. His life has been spent in fighting, and I am afraid he is apt to meet the world on that footing. He is a man of such devotion to his duty that he rarely has a day to himself, and I have known him to sit up until the small hours of the morning to settle some little matter of justice. I do not think I am betraying his confidence when I say that he is impressed with your ability, and that he liked your manner the only time he ever talked to you. He believes that you have got, in some way, a wrong idea of what he is trying to do. Why don't you come up and talk to him again?”

      “I am afraid your kindness leads you to overrate my importance,” Austen replied, with mingled feelings. Victoria's confidence in her father made the situation all the more hopeless.

      “I'm sure I don't,” she answered quickly; “ever since—ever since I first laid eyes upon you I have had a kind of belief in you.”

      “Belief?” he echoed.

      “Yes,” she said, “belief that—that you had a future. I can't describe it,” she continued, the colour coming into her face again; “one feels that way about some people without being able to put the feeling into words. And have a feeling, too, that I should like you to be friends with my father.”

      Neither of them, perhaps, realized the rapidity with which “accidental acquaintance” had melted into intimacy. Austen's blood ran faster, but it was characteristic of him that he tried to steady himself, for he was a Vane. He had thought of her many times during the past year, but gradually the intensity of the impression had faded until it had been so unexpectedly and vividly renewed to-day. He was not a man to lose his head, and the difficulties of the situation made him pause and choose his words, while he dared not so much as glance at her as she sat in the sunlight beside him.

      “I should like to be friends with your father,” he answered gravely—the statement being so literally true as to have its pathetically humorous aspect.

      “I'll tell him so, Mr. Vane,” she said.

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