“I prefer the practice of law,” he replied.

“Saw you were associatin’ with saints,” his father remarked.

Austen bit his lip, and then laughed outright,—­the canonization of old Tom Gaylord being too much for him.

“Now, Judge,” he said, “it isn’t like you to draw hasty conclusions.  Because I sat down to supper with the Gaylords it isn’t fair to infer that they have retained me in a legislative case.”

The Honourable Hilary did not respond to his son’s humour, but shifted the Honey Dew to the left cheek.

“Old Tom going in for reform?”

“He may bring it about,” answered Austen, instantly becoming serious again, “whether he’s going in for it or not.”

For the first time the Honourable Hilary raised his eyes to his son’s face, and shot at him a penetrating look of characteristic shrewdness.  But he followed in conversation the same rule as in examining a witness, rarely asking a direct question, except as a tactical surprise.

“Old Tom ought to have his railroad, oughtn’t he?”

“So far as I can see, it would be a benefit to the people of that part of the State,” said Austen.

“Building it for the people, is he?”

“His motive doesn’t count.  The bill should be judged on its merits, and proper measures for the safeguarding of public interests should be put into it.”

“Don’t think the bill will be judged on its merits, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Austen, “and neither do you.”

“Did you tell old Tom so?” asked Mr. Vane, after a pause.  “Did you tell old Tom so when he sent for you to take hold?”

“He didn’t send for me,” answered Austen, quietly, “and I have no business dealings with him except small suits.  What I did tell him was that he would never get the bill through this session or next by lobbying.”

The Honourable Hilary never showed surprise.  He emitted a grunt which evinced at once impatience and amusement.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Well, Judge, I’ll tell you what I told him—­although you both know.  It’s because the Northeastern owns the Republican party machine, which is the lobby, and because most of the twenty State senators are dependent upon the Northeastern for future favours.”

“Did you tell Tom Gaylord that?” demanded Mr. Vane.  “What did he say?”

Austen braced himself.  He did not find the answer easy.

“He said he knew about Number Seven as well as I did.”

The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly—­perhaps in some secret agitation —­Austen could not discern.  His father walked as far as the door, and turned slowly and faced him, but he did not speak.  His mouth was tightly closed, almost as in pain, and Austen went towards him, appealingly.