“Who do you want to see?” inquired Mr. Crewe, with the admirable tact for which he was noted.

Austen looked at him for the first time.

“Anybody who will hold my horse,” he answered quietly.

By this time the conversation had drawn the attention of the others at the tables, and one or two smiled at Austen’s answer.  Mrs. Flint, with a “Who is it?” arose to repel a social intrusion.  She was an overdressed lady, inclining to embonpoint, but traces of the Rose of Sharon were still visible.

“Why don’t you drive ’round to the stables?” suggested Mr. Crewe, unaware of a smile.

Austen did not answer.  He was, in fact, looking towards the doorway, and the group on the porch were surprised to see a gleam of mirthful understanding start in his eyes.  An answering gleam was in Victoria’s, who had at that moment, by a singular coincidence, come out of the house.  She came directly down the steps and out on the gravel, and held her hand to him in the buggy, and he flushed with pleasure as he grasped it.

“How do you do, Mr. Vane?” she said.  “I am so glad you have called.  Humphrey, just push the stable button, will you?”

Mr. Crewe obeyed with no very good grace, while the tea-party went back to their seats.  Mrs. Flint supposed he had come to sell Victoria the horse; while Mrs. Pomfret, who had taken him in from crown to boots, remarked that he looked very much like a gentleman.

“I came to see your father for a few moments—­on business,” Austen explained.

She lifted her face to his with a second searching look.

“I’ll take you to him,” she said.

By this time a nimble groom had appeared from out o a shrubbery path and seized Pepper’s head.  Austen alighted and followed Victoria into a great, cool hallway, and through two darkened rooms, bewilderingly furnished and laden with the scent of flowers, into a narrow passage beyond.  She led the way simply, not speaking, and her silence seemed to betoken the completeness of an understanding between them, as of a long acquaintance.

In a plain white-washed room, behind a plain oaken desk, sat Mr. Flint—­a plain man.  Austen thought he would have known him had he seen him on the street.  The other things in the room were letter-files, a safe, a long-distance telephone, and a thin private secretary with a bend in his back.  Mr. Flint looked up from his desk, and his face, previously bereft of illumination, lighted when he saw his daughter.  Austen liked that in him.

“Well, Vic, what is it now?” he asked.

“Mr. Austen Vane to see you,” said Victoria, and with a quick glance at Austen she left him standing on the threshold.  Mr. Flint rose.  His eyes were deep-set in a square, hard head, and he appeared to be taking Austen in without directly looking at him; likewise, one felt that Mr. Flint’s handshake was not an absolute gift of his soul.

“How do you do, Mr. Vane?  I don’t remember ever to have had the pleasure of seeing you, although your father and I have been intimately connected for many years.”