Then the window was closed.

Austen walked on; whither, he knew not.  After a certain time of which he had no cognizance he found himself under the glaring arc-light that hung over Main Street before the Pelican Hotel, in front of what was known as the ladies’ entrance.  He slipped in there, avoiding the crowded lobby with its shifting groups and its haze of smoke,—­plainly to be seen behind the great plates of glass,—­went upstairs, and gained room Number.  Seven unnoticed.  Then, after the briefest moment of hesitation, he knocked.  A voice responded—­the Honourable Hilary’s.  There was but one light burning in the room, and Mr. Vane sat in his accustomed chair in the corner, alone.  He was not reading, nor was he drowsing, but his head was dropped forward a little on his breast.  He raised it slowly at his son’s entrance, and regarded Austen fixedly, though silently.

“You wanted to see me, Judge?” said Austen.

“Come at last, have you?” said Mr. Vane.

“I didn’t intend to be late,” said Austen.

“Seem to have a good deal of business on hand these days,” the Honourable Hilary remarked.

Austen took a step forward, and stopped.  Mr. Vane was preparing a piece of Honey Dew.

“If you would like to know what the business was, Judge, I am here to tell you.”

The Honourable Hilary grunted.

“I ain’t good enough to be confided in, I guess,” he said; “I wouldn’t understand motives from principle.”

Austen looked at his father for a few moments in silence.  To-night he seemed at a greater distance than ever before, and more lonely than ever.  When Austen had entered the room and had seen him sitting with his head bowed forward, the hostility of months of misunderstanding had fallen away from the son, and he had longed to fly to him as he had as a child after punishment.  Differences in after life, alas, are not always to be bridged thus.

“Judge,” he said slowly, with an attempt to control his voice, wouldn’t it have been fairer to wait awhile, before you made a remark like that?  Whatever our dealings may have been, I have never lied to you.  Anything you may want to know, I am here to tell you.”

“So you’re going to take up lobbying, are you?  I had a notion you were above lobbying.”

Austen was angered.  But like all men of character, his face became stern under provocation, and he spoke more deliberately.

“Before we go any farther,” he said, “would you mind telling me who your informant is on this point?”

“I guess I don’t need an informant.  My eyesight is as good as ever,” said the Honourable Hilary.

“Your deductions are usually more accurate.  If any one has told you that I am about to engage in lobbying, they have lied to you.”

“Wouldn’t engage in lobbying, would you?” the Honourable Hilary asked, with the air of making a casual inquiry.

Austen flushed, but kept his temper.