“Have you got that right kind picked out for me—­along with the rest?  You talk as though you had.”

It was said almost in the tone of insult.  It might have been the tone—­it might have been that the taunt touched upon the truth:  Thelismer Thornton’s face flushed.  He did not seem to find reply easy.

“There’s only this to say, grandfather.  I know you’re interested in me and in seeing me get ahead in the world.  You pushed me into politics, and I’m trying to make good.  I’m glad you did it—­I’ll say that now.  I see opportunities ahead if I stay square and honest.  But don’t you try to push me into marriage.  I’m going to do my own choosing there.  And that doesn’t mean that I’m in love with Clare Kavanagh, or intend to marry Clare Kavanagh, or want to marry her—­or that she wants to marry me.  That’s straight, and I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

He stood up, and his tone was defiant.

“You’d better take a walk, bub,” commended the Duke, quietly.  “I’m going to nap for a little while.  We may be up late to-night.”

He picked up his hat and canted it over his face.  “Get back here as early as five o’clock,” he said, from under its brim.

They were away in the farmer’s carryall at that hour, after a supper of bread-and-milk.

In the edge of the village of Burnside the Duke ordered a halt, and stepped down from the carriage.  The evening had settled in and it was dark under the elms.

“Here’s five dollars, brother.  You’ve used us all right, and now so long to you.”

“But I hain’t got you to nowhere yet!” protested the farmer.  He had finally decided in his own mind that these were railroad managers planning projects, with an eye on his own farm.  He wanted to carry them where he could exhibit them to some one who could inform him.

But the Duke promptly drew Harlan along into the shadows, and a farmer hampered with a two-seated carriage is not equipped for the trail.  They heard the complaining squeal of iron against iron as he turned to go back home.

“We’ve come here to call on a man,” stated the Duke, after they had walked for a little time.

“On ex-Governor Waymouth, I suppose,” Harlan suggested, quietly.

The old man chuckled.

“How long have you been suspecting that?”

“Ever since I heard Burnside mentioned, of course.”

“Good!  You guessed and kept still about it.  You’ve got the makings of a politician, and you are learning fast.  Now what do you suppose I’m sneaking up on Varden Waymouth in this way for?”

“You said I’d see for myself when the time came.  I’m in no hurry, grandfather.”

The Duke patted Harlan’s shoulder.  “You’re one of my kind, that’s sure, boy.  I haven’t got to put any patent time-lock onto your tongue.  And I can’t say that of many chaps in this State.  You’re a safe man to have along.  Come on!”

The house was back from the street a bit—­a modest mansion of brick, dignifiedly old.  Tall twin columns flanked the front door and supported the roof of the porch.  Harlan had never seen the residence of General Waymouth before, but that exterior seemed fitted to the man, such as he knew him to be.