ent life you lead, Mr. Vane. I
hope you haven't shot any more people--"

"I saw you," he said.

"Is that the way you spend your time in office hours,--throwing people
out of the windows?"

"It was only Tom Gaylord."

"He's the man Mr. Jenney said wanted you to be a senator, isn't he?" she
asked.

"You have a good memory," he answered her. "Yes. That's the reason I
tried to throw him out of the window."

"Why didn't you be a senator?" she asked abruptly. "I always think of you
in public life. Why waste your opportunities?"

"I'm not at all sure that was an opportunity. It was only some of Tom's
nonsense. I should have had all the politicians in the district against
me."

"But you aren't the kind of man who would care about the politicians,
surely. If Humphrey Crewe can get elected by the people, I should think
you might."

"I can't afford to give garden-parties and buy lemonade," said Austen,
and they both laughed. He did not think it worth while mentioning Mr.
Braden.

"Sometimes I think you haven't a particle of ambition," she said. "I like
men with ambition."

"I shall try to cultivate it," said Austen.

"You seem to be popular enough."

"Most worthless people are popular, because they don't tread on anybody's
toes."

"Worthless people don't take up poor people's suits, and win them," she
said. "I saw Zeb Meader the other day, and he said you could be President
of the United States."

"Zeb meant that I was eligible--having been born in this country," said
Austen. "But where did you see him?"

"I--I went to see him."

"All the way to Mercer?"

"It isn't so far in an automobile," she replied, as though in excuse, and
added, still more lamely, "Zeb and I became great friends, you know, in
the hospital."

He did not answer, but wondered the more at the simplicity and kindness
in one brought up as she had been which prompted her to take the trouble
to see the humblest of her friends: nay, to take the trouble to have
humble friends.

The road wound along a ridge, and at intervals was spread before them the
full glory of the September sunset,--the mountains of the west in
blue-black silhouette against the saffron sky, the myriad dappled clouds,
the crimson fading from the still reaches of the river, and the
wine-colour from the eastern hills. Both were silent under the spell, but
a yearning arose within him when he glanced at the sunset glow on her
face: would sunsets hereafter bring sadness?