So far there had been no breach of good taste in the Governor’s manner, no warning reminder of an origin that was certainly obscure and presumably low, no stale, dust-laden odours of the circus ring.  He had looked and spoken as any man of Stephen’s acquaintance might have done, facetiously, it is true, but without ostentation or vulgarity.  When the break came, therefore, it was the more shocking to the younger man because he had been so imperfectly prepared for it.

“And because he is different, of course you think he’d make a better Governor than I shall,” said Gideon Vetch abruptly.  “That is the way with you fellows who have ossified in the old political parties.  You never see a change in time to make ready for it.  You wait until it knocks you in the head, and then you wake up and grumble.  Now, I’ve been on the way for the last thirty years or so, but you never once so much as got wind of me.  You think I’ve just happened because of too much electricity in the air, like a thunderbolt or something; but you haven’t even looked back to find out whether you are right or wrong.  Talk about public spirit!  Why, there isn’t an ounce of live public spirit left among you, in spite of all the moonshine your man Benham talks about the healing virtues of tradition and the sacred taboo of your political Pharisees.  There wasn’t one of you that didn’t hate like the devil to see me Governor of Virginia—­and yet how many of you took the trouble to find out what I am made of, or to understand what I mean?  Did you even take the trouble to go to the polls and vote against me?”

Though Stephen flushed scarlet, he held his ground bravely.  It was true that he had not voted—­he hated the whole sordid business of politics—­but then, who had ever suspected for a minute that Gideon Vetch would be elected?  His brief liking for the man had changed suddenly to exasperation.  It seemed incredible to him that any Governor of Virginia should display so open a disregard of the ordinary rules of courtesy and hospitality.  To drag in their political differences at such a time, when he had come beneath the other’s roof merely to render him an unavoidable service!  To stoop to the pettifogging sophistry of the agitator simply because his opponent had reluctantly yielded him an opportunity!

“Well, I heard you speak, but that didn’t change me!” he retorted with a smile.

The Governor laughed, and the sincerity of his amusement was evident even to Stephen.  “Could anything short of a blasting operation change you traditional Virginians?” he inquired.

His face was turned to the fire, and the young man felt while he watched him that a piercing light was shed on his character.  It was as if Stephen saw his opponent from an entirely fresh point of view, as if he beheld him for the first time with the sharp clearness which the flash of his anger produced.  The very absence of all sense of dignity impressed him suddenly as the most tremendous dignity a human being could attain—­the unconscious dignity of natural forces—­of storms and fire and war and pestilence.  Because the man never thought of how he appeared, he appeared always impregnable.