After Mr. Jenney had left her, Victoria stood motionless, gazing off into the haze, until she was startled by the voice of Hastings Weare beside her.

“Say, Victoria, who is that man?” he asked.

“What man?”

Hastings nodded towards Austen, who, with a cake basket in his hand, stood chatting with a group of country people on the edge of the porch.

“Oh, that man!” said Victoria.  “His name’s Austen Vane, and he’s a lawyer in Ripton.”

“All I can say is,” replied Hastings, with a light in his face, “he’s one I’d like to tie to.  I’ll bet he could whip any four men you could pick out.”

Considering that Hastings had himself proposed—­although in a very mild form—­more than once to Victoria, this was generous.

“I daresay he could,” she agreed absently.

“It isn’t only the way he’s built,” persisted Hastings, “he looks as if he were going to be somebody some day.  Introduce me to him, will you?”

“Certainly,” said Victoria.  “Mr. Vane,” she called, “I want to introduce an admirer, Mr. Hastings Weare.”

“I just wanted to know you,” said Hastings, reddening, “and Victoria—­I mean Miss Flint—­said she’d introduce me.”

“I’m much obliged to her,” said Austen, smiling.

“Are you in politics?” asked Hastings.

“I’m afraid not,” answered Austen, with a glance at Victoria.

“You’re not helping Humphrey Crewe, are you?”

“No,” said Austen, and added with an illuminating smile, “Mr. Crewe doesn’t need any help.”

“I’m glad you’re not,” exclaimed the downright Hastings, with palpable relief in his voice that an idol had not been shattered.  “I think Humphrey’s a fakir, and all this sort of thing tommyrot.  He wouldn’t get my vote by giving me lemonade and cake and letting me look at his cows.  If you ever run for office, I’d like to cast it for you.  My father is only a summer resident, but since he has gone out of business he stays here till Christmas, and I’ll be twenty-one in a year.”

Austen had ceased to smile; he was looking into the boy’s eyes with that serious expression which men and women found irresistible.

“Thank you, Mr. Weare,” he said simply.

Hastings was suddenly overcome with the shyness of youth.  He held out his hand, and said, “I’m awfully glad to have met you,” and fled.

Victoria, who had looked on with a curious mixture of feelings, turned to Austen.

“That was a real tribute,” she said.  “Is this the way you affect everybody whom you meet?”

They were standing almost alone.  The sun was nearing the western hills beyond the river, and people had for some time been wending their way towards the field where the horses were tied.  He did not answer her question, but asked one instead.

“Will you let me drive you home?”

“Do you think you deserve to, after the shameful manner in which you have behaved?”