her.

CHAPTER XIX

MR. JABE JENNEY ENTERTAINS

Mr. Flint had dropped the subject with his last remark, nor had Victoria
attempted to pursue it. Bewildered and not a little depressed (a new
experience for her), she had tried to hide her feelings. He, too, was
harassed and tired, and she had drawn him away from the bench and through
the pine woods to the pastures to look at his cattle and the model barn
he was building for them. At half-past three, in her runabout, she had
driven him to the East Tunbridge station, where he had taken the train
for New York. He had waved her a good-by from the platform, and smiled:
and for a long time, as she drove through the silent roads, his words and
his manner remained as vivid as though he were still by her side. He was
a man who had fought and conquered, and who fought on for the sheer love
of it.

It was a blue day in the hill country. At noon the clouds had crowned
Sawanec--a sure sign of rain; the rain had come and gone, a June
downpour, and the overcast sky lent (Victoria fancied) to the
country-side a new atmosphere. The hills did not look the same. It was
the kind of a day when certain finished country places are at their
best--or rather seem best to express their meaning; a day for an event; a
day set strangely apart with an indefinable distinction. Victoria
recalled such days in her youth when weddings or garden-parties had
brought canopies into service, or news had arrived to upset the routine
of the household. Raindrops silvered the pines, and the light winds shook
them down on the road in a musical shower.

Victoria was troubled, as she drove, over a question which had recurred
to her many times since her talk that morning: had she been hypocritical
in not telling her father that she had seen more of Austen Vane than she
had implied by her silence? For many years Victoria had chosen her own
companions; when the custom had begun, her mother had made a protest
which Mr. Flint had answered with a laugh; he thought Victoria's judgment
better than his wife's. Ever since that time the Rose of Sharon had taken
the attitude of having washed her hands of responsibility for a course
which must inevitably lead to ruin. She discussed some of Victoria's
acquaintances with Mrs. Pomfret and other intimates; and Mrs. Pomfret had
lost no time in telling Mrs. Flint about her daughter's sleigh-ride at
the State capital with a young man from Ripton who seemed to be seeing
entirely