ho can, say? And how it must have striven again for utterance--

"It was good of you to come," he said.

"It was only common humanity," she answered, touching the horse.

"Common humanity," he repeated. "You'd have done it for anybody along
the road, would you?"

At this remark, so characteristic of Hilary, Victoria, hesitated. She
understood it now. And yet she hesitated to give him an answer that was
hypocritical.

"I have known you all my life, Mr. Vane, and you are a very old friend
of my father's."

"Old," he repeated, "yes, that's it. I'm ready for the
scrap-heap--better have let me lie, Victoria."

Victoria started. A new surmise had occurred to her upon which she did
not like to dwell.

"You have worked too hard, Mr. Vane--you need a rest. And I have been
telling father that, too. You both need a rest."

He shook his head.

"I'll never get it," he said. "Stopping work won't give it to me."

She pondered on these words as she guided the horse over a crossing. And
all that Austen had said to her, all that she had been thinking of for
a year past, helped her to grasp their meaning. But she wondered still
more at the communion which, all at once, had been established between
Hilary Vane and herself, and why he was saying these things to her. It
was all so unreal and inexplicable.

"I can imagine that people who have worked hard all their lives must
feel that way," she answered, though her voice was not as steady as she
could have wished. "You--you have so much to live for."

Her colour rose. She was thinking of Austen--and she knew that Hilary
Vane knew that she was thinking of Austen. Moreover, she had suddenly
grasped the fact that the gentle but persistently strong influence of
the son's character had brought about the change in the father. Hilary
Vane's lips closed again, as in pain, and she divined the reason.

Victoria knew the house in Hanover Street, with its classic porch, with
its certain air of distinction and stability, and long before she had
known it as the Austen residence she remembered wondering who lived in
it. The house had individuality, and (looked at from the front) almost
perfect proportions; consciously--it bespoke the gentility of its
builders. Now she drew up before it and called to Mr. Rangely, who was
abreast, to tie his horse and ring the bell. Hilary was already feeling
with his foot for the step of the buggy.

"I'm all right," he insisted; "I can manage now," but Vict