“Because he’s in such a bad temper,” said Victoria.  “You must have put him in it.  It can’t be possible that you came all the way up here to quarrel with him.  Nobody ever dares to quarrel with him.”

“I didn’t come up to quarrel with him,” said Austen.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Victoria.

The humour of this question was too much for him, and he laughed.  Victoria’s eyes laughed a little, but there was a pucker in her forehead.

“Won’t you tell me?” she demanded, “or must I get it out of him?”

“I am afraid,” said Austen, slowly, “that you must get it out of him—­if he hasn’t forgotten it.”

“Forgotten it, dear old soul!” cried Victoria.  “I met him just now and tried to make him look at the new Guernseys, and he must have been disturbed quite a good deal when he’s cross as a bear to me.  He really oughtn’t to be upset like that, Mr. Vane, when he comes up here to rest.  I am afraid that you are rather a terrible person, although you look so nice.  Won’t you tell me what you did to him?”

Austen was non-plussed.

“Nothing intentional,” he answered earnestly, “but it wouldn’t be fair to your father if I gave you my version of a business conversation that passed between us, would it?”

“Perhaps not,” said Victoria.  She sat down on the flagstone with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and looked at him thoughtfully.  He knew well enough that a wise general would have retreated—­horse, foot, and baggage; but Pepper did not stir.

“Do you know,” said Victoria, “I have an idea you came up here about Zeb Meader.”

“Zeb Meader!”

“Yes.  I told my father about him,—­how you rescued him, and how you went to see him in the hospital, and what a good man he is, and how poor.”

“Oh, did you!” exclaimed Austen.

“Yes.  And I told him the accident wasn’t Zeb’s fault, that the train didn’t whistle or ring, and that the crossing was a blind one.”

“And what did he say?” asked Austen, curiously.

“He said that on a railroad as big as his something of the kind must happen occasionally.  And he told me if Zeb didn’t make a fuss and act foolishly, he would have no cause to regret it.”

“And did you tell Zeb?” asked Austen.

“Yes,” Victoria admitted, “but I’m sorry I did, now.”

“What did Zeb say?”

Victoria laughed in spite of herself, and gave a more or less exact though kindly imitation of Mr. Meader’s manner.

“He said that wimmen-folks had better stick to the needle and the duster, and not go pokin’ about law business that didn’t concern ’em.  But the worst of it was,” added Victoria, with some distress, “he won’t accept any more fruit.  Isn’t he silly?  He won’t get it into his head that I give him the fruit, and not my father.  I suspect that he actually believes my father sent me down there to tell him that.”