“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied Patty, with her air of mockery.  “If there were no worse things than that!”

He did not hold out his hand, though there was a flutter toward him of her fingers—­pretty fingers they were for a girl with no blood that one could mention in public.  There was a faint hope in his mind that he might still vanish unthanked and undetained.  The one quality in father and daughter which had arrested his favourable attention—­the quality of “a good sport”—­would probably aid in his escape.

“Drop in some evening, and we’ll have a talk,” said the Governor in his slightly theatrical but extremely confident manner, “there are things I’d like to say to you.  You are a lawyer, if I remember, in Judge Horatio Page’s firm, and you were in the war from the beginning.”

Stephen smiled.  “Not quite.”  They were at the front door, and all hope of escaping into the desirable obscurity from which he had sprung fled from his mind.

“He is a great old boy, the Judge,” resumed Gideon Vetch blandly, “I had a talk with him one day before the elections, when you other fellows were sitting back like a lot of lunatics and waiting for the Democratic primaries to put things over.  He is the only one in the whole bunch of you who stopped shouting long enough to hear what I had to say.  I like him, sir, and if there is one thing you will never find me doing it is liking the wrong man.  I may not know Greek, but I can read men.”

The front door was open, and the blast of cold air dispersed all the foolish fancies that had gathered in Stephen’s brain.  Beyond the fountain and the gate he could see the broad road through the Square and the dark majestic figure of Washington on horseback.  The electric signs were blazing on the roofs of the shops and hotels which had driven the original dwelling houses out of the neighbouring streets.

Turning as he was descending the steps, the young man looked into the Governor’s face.  “Are you sure that you read Julius Gershom correctly?” he inquired.

For a minute—­it could not have been longer—­the Governor did not reply.  Was he surprised for once into open discomfiture, or was his nimble wit engaged in framing a plausible answer?  Within the house, where so much was disappointing and incongruous, Stephen had not felt the lack of harmony between Gideon Vetch and his surroundings; but against the fine proportions and the serene stateliness of the exterior, the Governor’s figure appeared aggressively modern.

“Julius Gershom!” repeated Vetch.  “Well, yes, I think I know my Julius.  May I ask if you do?” The ironical humour which flashed like a sharp light over his countenance played with the idea.

“Not by choice.”  Stephen looked back laughing.  There was one thing to be said in the Governor’s favour—­he invited honesty and he knew how to receive it.  “But I read of him in the newspapers when I cannot avoid it.  He does some dirty work, doesn’t he?”