“We was just talkin’ about you,” cried Mr. Meader, cordially; “come right in.”  He turned to Victoria.  “I want to make you acquainted,” he said, “with Austen Vane.”

“And won’t you tell him who I am, Mr. Meader?” said Victoria.

“Well,” said Mr. Meader, apologetically, “that was stupid of me—­wahn’t it?  But I callated he’d know.  She’s the daughter of the railrud president—­the ‘one that was askin’ about you.”

There was an instant’s pause, and the colour stole into Victoria’s cheeks.  Then she glanced at Austen and bit her lip-and laughed.  Her laughter was contagious.

“I suppose I shall have to confess that you have inspired my curiosity, Mr. Vane,” she said.

Austen’s face was sunburned, but it flushed a more vivid red under the tan.  It is needless to pretend that a man of his appearance and qualities had reached the age of thirty-two without having listened to feminine comments of which he was the exclusive subject.  In this remark of Victoria’s, or rather in the manner in which she made it, he recognized a difference.

“It is a tribute, then, to the histrionic talents of Mr. Meader, of which you were speaking,” he replied laughingly.

Victoria glanced at him with interest as he looked down at Mr. Meader.

“And how is it to-day, Zeb?” he said.

“It ain’t so bad as it might be—­with sech folks as her and you araound,” admitted Mr. Meader.  “I’d almost agree to get run over again.  She was askin’ about you, and that’s a fact, and I didn’t slander you, neither.  But I never callated to comprehend wimmen-folks.”

“Now, Mr. Meader,” said Victoria, reprovingly, but there were little creases about her eyes, “don’t be a fraud.”

“It’s true as gospel,” declared the invalid; “they always got the better of me.  I had one of ’em after me once, when I was young and prosperin’ some.”

“And yet you have survived triumphant,” she exclaimed.

“There wahn’t none of ’em like you,” said Mr. Meader, “or it might have be’n different.”

Again her eyes irresistibly sought Austen’s,—­as though to share with him the humour of this remark,—­and they laughed together.  Her colour, so sensitive, rose again, but less perceptibly this time.  Then she got up.

“That’s unfair, Mr. Meader!” she protested.

“I’ll leave it to Austen,” said Mr. Meader, “if it ain’t probable.  He’d ought to know.”

In spite of a somewhat natural embarrassment, Austen could not but acknowledge to himself that Mr. Meader was right.  With a womanly movement which he thought infinitely graceful, Victoria leaned over the bed.

“Mr. Meader,” she said, “I’m beginning to think it’s dangerous for me to come here twice a week to see you, if you talk this way.  And I’m not a bit surprised that that woman didn’t get the better of you.”

“You hain’t a-goin’!” he exclaimed.  “Why, I callated—­”