“We don’t always have lemonade and cake,” he was saying, “but you can be sure of a welcome, just the same.  Good-by, Vane, glad you came.  Did they show you through the stables?  Did you see the mate to the horse I lost?  Beauty, isn’t he?  Stir ’em up and get the money.  I guess we won’t see much of each other politically.  You’re anti-railroad.  I don’t believe that tack’ll work—­we can’t get along without corporations, you know.  You ought to talk to Flint.  I’ll give you a letter of introduction to him.  I don’t know what I’d have done without that man Tooting in your father’s office.  He’s a wasted genius in Ripton.  What?  Good-by, you’ll find your wagon, I guess.  Well, Victoria, where have you been keeping yourself?  I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to look for you.  You’re going to stay to dinner, and Hastings, and all the people who have helped.”

“No, I’m not,” answered Victoria, with a glance at Austen, before whom this announcement was so delicately made, “I’m going home.”

“But when am I to see you?” cried Mr. Crewe, as near genuine alarm as he ever got.  You never let me see you.  I was going to drive you home in the motor by moonlight.”

“We all know that you’re the most original person, Victoria,” said Mrs. Pomfret, “full of whims and strange fancies,” she added, with the only brief look at Austen she had deigned to bestow on him.  “It never pays to count on you for twenty-four hours.  I suppose you’re off on another wild expedition.”

“I think I’ve earned the right to it,” said Victoria;—­I’ve poured lemonade for Humphrey’s constituents the whole afternoon.  And besides, I never said I’d stay for dinner.  I’m going home.  Father’s leaving for California in the morning.”

“He’d better stay at home and look after her,” Mrs. Pomfret remarked, when Victoria was out of hearing.

Since Mrs. Harry Haynes ran off, one can never tell what a woman will do.  It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Victoria eloped with a handsome nobody like that.  Of course he’s after her money, but he wouldn’t get it, not if I know Augustus Flint.”

“Is he handsome?” said Mr. Crewe, as though the idea were a new one.  “Great Scott, I don’t believe she gives him a thought.  She’s only going as far as the field with him.  She insisted on leaving her horse there instead of putting him in the stable.”

“Catch Alice going as far as the field with him,” said Mrs. Pomfret, “but I’ve done my duty.  It’s none of my affair.”

In the meantime Austen and Victoria had walked on some distance in silence.

“I have an idea with whom Mr. Crewe is in love,” he said at length.

“So have I,” replied Victoria, promptly.  “Humphrey’s in love with himself.  All he desires in a wife—­if he desires one—­is an inanimate and accommodating looking-glass, in whom he may see what he conceives to be his own image daily.  James, you may take the mare home.  I’m going to drive with Mr. Vane.”