“How long have you cared, Victoria?” he asked.

She became thoughtful.

“Always, I think,” she answered; “only I didn’t know it.  I think I loved you even before I saw you.”

“Before you saw me!”

“I think it began,” said Victoria, “when I learned that you had shot Mr. Blodgett—­only I hope you will never do such a thing again.  And you will please try to remember,” she added, after a moment, “that I am neither Eben Fitch nor your friend, Tom Gaylord.”

Sunset found them seated on the rock, with the waters of the river turned to wine at the miracle in the sky their miracle.  At times their eyes wandered to the mountain, which seemed to regard them from a discreet distance—­with a kindly and protecting majesty.

“And you promised,” said Victoria, “to take me up there.  When will you do it?”

“I thought you were going away,” he replied.

“Unforeseen circumstances,” she answered, “have compelled me to change my plans.”

“Then we will go tomorrow,” he said.

“To the Delectable Land,” said Victoria, dreamily; “your land, where we shall be—­benevolent despots.  Austen?”

“Yes?” He had not ceased to thrill at the sound of his name upon her lips.

“Do you think,” she asked, glancing at him, “do you think you have money enough to go abroad—­just for a little while?”

He laughed joyously.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I shall make it a point to examine my bank-account to-night.  I haven’t done so—­for some time.”

“We will go to Venice, and drift about in a gondola on one of those gray days when the haze comes in from the Adriatic and touches the city with the magic of the past.  Sometimes I like the gray days best—­when I am happy.  And then,” she added, regarding him critically, “although you are very near perfection, there are some things you ought to see and learn to make your education complete.  I will take you to all the queer places I love.  When you are ambassador to France, you know, it would be humiliating to have to have an interpreter, wouldn’t it?”

“What’s the use of both of us knowing the language?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid we shall be—­too happy,” she sighed, presently.

“Too happy!” he repeated.

“I sometimes wonder,” she said, “whether happiness and achievement go together.  And yet—­I feel sure that you will achieve.”

“To please you, Victoria,” he answered, “I think I should almost be willing to try.”

CHAPTER XXX

P.S.

By request of one who has read thus far, and is still curious.

Yes, and another who, in spite of himself, has fallen in love with Victoria and would like to linger a while longer, even though it were with the paltry excuse of discussing that world-old question of hers—­Can sublime happiness and achievement go together?  Novels on the problem of sex nowadays often begin with marriages, but rarely discuss the happy ones; and many a woman is forced to sit wistfully at home while her companion soars.