s
hand, and said, "I'm awfully glad to have met you," and fled.

Victoria, who had looked on with a curious mixture of feelings, turned to
Austen.

"That was a real tribute," she said. "Is this the way you affect
everybody whom you meet?"

They were standing almost alone. The sun was nearing the western hills
beyond the river, and people had for some time been wending their way
towards the field where the horses were tied. He did not answer her
question, but asked one instead.

"Will you let me drive you home?"

"Do you think you deserve to, after the shameful manner in which you have
behaved?"

"I'm quite sure that I don't deserve to," he answered, still looking down
at her.

"If you did deserve to, being a woman, I probably shouldn't let you,"
said Victoria, flashing a look upwards; "as it is, you may."

His face lighted, but she halted in the grass, with her hands behind her,
and stared at him with a puzzled expression.

"I'm sure you're a dangerous man," she declared. "First you take in poor
little Hastings, and now you're trying to take me in."

"Then I wish I were still more dangerous," he laughed, "for apparently I
haven't succeeded."

"I want to talk to you seriously," said Victoria; "that is the only
reason I'm permitting you to drive me home."

"I am devoutly thankful for the reason then," he said,--"my horse is tied
in the field."

"And aren't you going to say good-by to your host and hostess?"

"Hostess?" he repeated, puzzled.

"Hostesses," she corrected herself, "Mrs. Pomfret and Alice. I thought
you had eyes in your head," she added, with a fleeting glance at them.

"Is Crewe engaged to Miss Pomfret?" he asked.

"Are all men simpletons?" said Victoria. "He doesn't know it yet, but he
is."

"I think I'd know it, if I were," said Austen, with an emphasis that made
her laugh.

"Sometimes fish don't know they're in a net until--until the morning
after," said Victoria. "That has a horribly dissipated sound--hasn't it?
I know to a moral certainty that Mr. Crewe will eventually lead Miss
Pomfret away from the altar. At present," she could not refrain from
adding, "he thinks he's in love with some one else."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," she replied. "Humphrey's perfectly happy, because he
believes most women are in love with him, and he's making up his mind in
that magnificent, thorough way of his whether she is worthy to be endowed
with his heart and hand, his cows, and all his stoc