His blood kept pace with the mare’s footsteps, but he did not reply.

“What did you think of Humphrey’s speech?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“I thought it a surprisingly good one,—­what I heard of it,” he answered.  “That wasn’t much.  I didn’t think he’d do as well.”

“Humphrey’s clever in a great many ways,” Victoria agreed.  “If he didn’t have such an impenetrable conceit, he might go far, because he learns quickly, and has an industry that is simply appalling.  But he hasn’t quite the manner for politics, has he?”

“I think I should call his manner a drawback,” said Austen, “though not by any means an insurmountable one.”

Victoria laughed.

“The other qualities all need to be very great,” she said.  “He was furious at me for coming out this afternoon.  He had it all arranged to drive over to the Forge, and had an early lunch.”

“And I,” said Austen, “have all the more reason to be grateful to you.”

“Oh, if you knew the favour you were doing me,” she cried, “bringing me out here where I can breathe.  I hope you don’t think I dislike Humphrey,” she went on.  “Of course, if I did, I shouldn’t visit him.  You see, I have known him for so long.”

“I hadn’t a notion that you disliked him,” said Austen.  “I am curious about his career; that’s one reason I came down.  He somehow inspires curiosity.”

“And awe,” she added.  “Humphrey’s career has all the fascination of a runaway locomotive.  One watches it transfixed, awaiting the inevitable crash.”

Their eyes met, and they both laughed.

“It’s no use trying to be a humbug,” said Victoria, “I can’t.  And I do like Humphrey, in spite of his career.”

And they laughed again.  The music of the bells ran faster and faster still, keeping time to a wilder music of the sunlit hills and sky; nor was it strange that her voice, when she spoke, did not break the spell, but laid upon him a deeper sense of magic.

“This brings back the fairy books,” she said, “and all those wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten sensations of the truant, doesn’t it?  You’ve been a truant—­haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he laughed, “I’ve been a truant, but I never quite realized the possibilities of the part—­until to-day.”

She was silent a moment, and turned away her head, surveying the landscape that fell away for miles beyond.

“When I was a child,” she said, “I used to think that by opening a door I could step into an enchanted realm like this.  Only I could never find the door.  Perhaps,” she added, gayly pursuing the conceit, “it was because you had the key, and I didn’t know you in those days.”  She gave him a swift, searching look, smiling, whimsical yet startled,—­so elusive that the memory of it afterwards was wont to come and go like a flash of light.  “Who are you?” she asked.

His blood leaped, but he smiled in delighted understanding of her mood.  Sarah Austen had brought just such a magic touch to an excursion, and even at that moment Austen found himself marvelling a little at the strange resemblance between the two.