“I want to do the right thing,” said Mr. Crewe.  “In fact, I have almost made up my mind to go to the Legislature this year.  I know it would be a sacrifice of time, in a sense, and all that, but—­” He paused, and looked at Austen.

“The Legislature needs leavening.”

“Precisely,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, “and when I look around me and see the things crying to be done in this State, and no lawmaker with sense and foresight enough to propose them, it makes me sick.  Now, for instance,” he continued, and rose with an evident attempt to assault the forestry shelves.  But Austen rose too.

“I’d like to go over that with you, Mr. Crewe,” said he, “but I have to be back in Ripton.”

“How about my case?” his host demanded, with a return to his former abruptness.

“What about it?” asked Austen.

“Are you going to take it?”

“Struggling lawyers don’t refuse business.”

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “that’s sensible.  But what are you going to charge?”

“Now,” said Austen, with entire good humour, “when you get on that ground, you are dealing no longer with one voracious unit, but with a whole profession,—­a profession, you will allow me to add, which in dignity is second to none.  In accordance with the practice of the best men in that profession, I will charge you what I believe is fair—­not what I think you are able and willing to pay.  Should you dispute the bill, I will not stoop to quarrel with you, but, try to live on bread and butter a while longer.”

Mr. Crewe was silent for a moment.  It would not be exact to say uncomfortable, for it is to be doubted whether he ever got so.  But he felt dimly that the relations of patron and patronized were becoming somewhat jumbled.

“All right,” said he, “I guess we can let it go at that.  Hello!  What the deuce are those women doing here again?”

This irrelevant exclamation was caused by the sight through the open French window—­of three ladies in the flower garden, two of whom were bending over the beds.  The third, upon whose figure Austen’s eyes were riveted, was seated on a stone bench set in a recess of pines, and looking off into the Yale of the Blue.  With no great eagerness, but without apology to Austen, Mr. Crewe stepped out of the window and approached them; and as this was as good a way as any to his horse and buggy, Austen followed.  One of the ladies straightened at their appearance, scrutinized them through the glasses she held in her hand, and Austen immediately recognized her as the irreproachable Mrs. Pomfret.

“We didn’t mean to disturb you, Humphrey,” she said.  “We knew you would be engaged in business, but I told Alice as we drove by I could not resist stopping for one more look at your Canterbury bells.  I knew you wouldn’t mind, but you mustn’t leave your—­affairs,—­not for an instant.”

The word “affairs” was accompanied by a brief inspection of Austen Vane.