nation of the mother's. That smile
was in itself a refutation of motive on Austen's part which no words
could have made more emphatic; it had in it (unconsciously, too)
compassion for and understanding of the Honourable Hilary's mood and
limitations. Out of the corner of his mental vision--without grasping
it--the Honourable Hilary perceived this vaguely. It was the smile in
which a parent privately indulges when a child kicks his toy locomotive
because its mechanism is broken. It was the smile of one who,
unforgetful of the scheme of the firmament and the spinning planets,
will not be moved to anger by him who sees but the four sides of a pit.

Hilary Vane grew red around the eyes--a danger signal of the old days.

"Take the suit," he said. "If you don't, I'll make it known all over the
State that you started it. I'll tell Mr. Flint to-morrow. Take it, do
you hear me? You ask me if I have any pride in you. I answer, yes. I'd
like to see what you can do. I've done what I could for you, and now I
wash my hands of you. Go,--ruin yourself if you want to. You've always
been headed that way, and there's no use trying to stop you. You
don't seem to have any notion of decency or order, or any idea of the
principle on which this government was based. Attack property destroy
it. So much the better for you and your kind. Join the Humphrey
Crewes--you belong with 'em. Give those of us who stand for order and
decency as much trouble as you can. Brand us as rascals trying to enrich
ourselves with politics, and proclaim yourselves saints nobly striving
to get back the rights of the people. If you don't bring that suit, I
tell you I'll give you the credit for it--and I mean what I say."

Austen got to his feet. His own expression, curiously enough, had not
changed to one of anger. His face had set, but his eyes held the look
that seemed still to express compassion, and what he felt was a sorrow
that went to the depths of his nature. What he had so long feared--what
he knew they had both feared--had come at last.

"Good-by, Judge," he said.

Hilary Vane stared at him dumbly. His anger had not cooled, his eyes
still flamed, but he suddenly found himself bereft of speech. Austen
put his hand on his father's shoulder, and looked down silently into his
face. But Hilary was stiff as in a rigour, expressionless save for the
defiant red in his eye.

"I don't think you meant all that, Judge, and I don't intend to hold it
against you."