“I want to ask you something, Mr. Vane—­I have been wanting to for a long time.”

She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten,—­a manner he had when earnest or determined,—­and she wondered in agitation whether he divined what she was going to say.  He turned his face slowly to hers, and his eyes were troubled.

“Yes,” he said.

“You have always spared my feelings,” she went on.  “Now—­now I am asking for the truth—­as you see it.  Do the Northeastern Railroads wrongfully govern this State for their own ends?”

Austen, too, as he thought over it afterwards, in the night, was surprised at her concise phrasing, suggestive; as it was, of much reflection.  But at the moment, although he had been prepared for and had braced himself against something of this nature, he was nevertheless overcome by the absolute and fearless directness of her speech.

“That is a question,” he answered, “which you will have to ask your father.”

“I have asked him,” she said, in a low voice; “I want to know what—­you believe.”

“You have asked him!” he repeated, in astonishment.

“Yes.  You mustn’t think that, in asking you, I am unfair to him in any way—­or that I doubt his sincerity.  We have been” (her voice caught a little) “the closest friends ever since I was a child.”  She paused.  “But I want to know what you believe.”

The fact that she emphasized the last pronoun sent another thrill through him.  Did it, then, make any difference to her what he believed?  Did she mean to differentiate him from out of the multitude?  He had to steady himself before he answered:—­“I have sometimes thought that my own view might not be broad enough.”

She turned to him again.

“Why are you evading?” she asked.  “I am sure it is not because you have not settled convictions.  And I have asked you—­a favour.”

“You have done me an honour,” he answered, and faced her suddenly.  “You must see,” he cried, with a power and passion in his voice that startled and thrilled her in turn, “you must see that it’s because I wish to be fair that I hesitate.  I would tell you—­anything.  I do not agree with my own father,—­we have been—­apart—­for years because of this.  And I do—­not agree with Mr. Flint.  I am sure that they both are wrong.  But I cannot help seeing their point of view.  These practices are the result of an evolution, of an evolution of their time.  They were forced to cope with conditions in the way they did, or go to the wall.  They make the mistake of believing that the practices are still necessary to-day.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, a great hope rising within her at these words.  “Oh, and you believe they are not!” His explanation seemed so simple, so inspiring.  And above and beyond that, he was sure.  Conviction rang in every word.  Had he not, she remembered, staked his career by disagreeing with his father?  Yes, and he had been slow to condemn; he had seen their side.  It was they who condemned him.  He must have justice—­he should have it!