“Oh, yes, there is,” said Victoria; “he regards you as a person whose opinion has some weight.  I am sure of that.  He thinks of you as a person of convictions—­and he has heard things about you.  You talked to him once,” she went on, astonished at her own boldness, “and made him angry.  Why don’t you talk to him again?” she cried, seeing that Austen was silent.  “I am sure that what you said about the change of public opinion in the State would appeal to him.  And oh, don’t quarrel with him!  You have a faculty of differing with people without quarrelling with them.  My father has so many cares, and he tries so hard to do right as he sees it.  You must remember that he was a poor farmer’s son, and that he began to work at fourteen in Brampton, running errands for a country printer.  He never had any advantages except those he made for himself, and he had to fight his way in a hard school against men who were not always honourable.  It is no wonder that he sometimes takes—­a material view of things.  But he is reasonable and willing to listen to what other men have to say, if he is not antagonized.”

“I understand,” said Austen, who thought Mr. Flint blest in his advocate.  Indeed, Victoria’s simple reference to her father’s origin had touched him deeply.  “I understand, but I cannot go to him.  There is every reason why I cannot,” he added, and she knew that he was speaking with difficulty, as under great emotion.

“But if he should send for you?” she asked.  She felt his look fixed upon her with a strange intensity, and her heart leaped as she dropped her eyes.

“If Mr. Flint should send for me,” he answered slowly, “I would come—­and gladly.  But it must be of his own free will.”

Victoria repeated the words over to herself, “It must be of his own free will,” waiting until she should be alone to seek their full interpretation.  She turned, and looked across the lawn at Fairview House shining in the light.  In another minute they had drawn up before the open door.

“Won’t you come in—­and wait for Mr. Jenney?” she asked.

He gazed down into her face, searchingly, and took her hand.

“Good night,” he said; “Mr. Jenney is not far behind.  I think—­I think I should like the walk.”

CHAPTER XX

MR. CREWE:  AN APPRECIATION (1)

It is given to some rare mortals—­with whom fame precedes grey hairs or baldness to read, while still on the rising tide of their efforts, that portion of their lives which has already been inscribed on the scroll of history—­or something like it.  Mr. Crewe in kilts at five; and (prophetic picture!) with a train of cars which—­so the family tradition runs—­was afterwards demolished; Mr. Crewe at fourteen, in delicate health; this picture was taken abroad, with a long-suffering tutor who could speak feelingly, if he would, of embryo geniuses.  Even at this early period Humphrey