“Zeb meant that I was eligible—­having been born in this country,” said Austen.  “But where did you see him?”

“I—­I went to see him.”

“All the way to Mercer?”

“It isn’t so far in an automobile,” she replied, as though in excuse, and added, still more lamely, “Zeb and I became great friends, you know, in the hospital.”

He did not answer, but wondered the more at the simplicity and kindness in one brought up as she had been which prompted her to take the trouble to see the humblest of her friends:  nay, to take the trouble to have humble friends.

The road wound along a ridge, and at intervals was spread before them the full glory of the September sunset,—­the mountains of the west in blue-black silhouette against the saffron sky, the myriad dappled clouds, the crimson fading from the still reaches of the river, and the wine-colour from the eastern hills.  Both were silent under the spell, but a yearning arose within him when he glanced at the sunset glow on her face:  would sunsets hereafter bring sadness?

His thoughts ran riot as the light faded in the west.  Hers were not revealed.  And the silence between them seemed gradually to grow into a pact, to become a subtler and more intimate element than speech.  A faint tang of autumn smoke was in the air, a white mist crept along the running waters, a silver moon like a new-stamped coin rode triumphant in the sky, impatient to proclaim her glory; and the shadows under the ghost-like sentinel trees in the pastures grew blacker.  At last Victoria looked at him.

“You are the only man I know who doesn’t insist on talking,” she said.  There are times when—­”

“When there is nothing to say,” he suggested.

She laughed softly.  He tried to remember the sound of it afterwards, when he rehearsed this phase of the conversation, but couldn’t.

“It’s because you like the hills, isn’t it?” she asked.  “You seem such an out-of-door person, and Mr. Jenney said you were always wandering about the country-side.”

“Mr. Jenney also made other reflections about my youth,” said Austen.

She laughed again, acquiescing in his humour, secretly thankful not to find him sentimental.

“Mr. Jenney said something else that—­that I wanted to ask you about,” she went on, breathing more deeply.  “It was about the railroad.”

“I am afraid you have not come to an authority,” he replied.

“You said the politicians would be against you if you tried to become a State senator.  Do you believe that the politicians are owned by the railroad?”

“Has Jenney been putting such things into your head?”

“Not only Mr. Jenney, but—­I have heard other people say that.  And Humphrey Crewe said that you hadn’t a chance politically, because you had opposed the railroad and had gone against your own interests.”

Austen was amazed at this new exhibition of courage on her part, though he was sorely pressed.