"Didn't you rather like him, father?"
Old Hastings gathered the reins in his lean, distorted hands. "So so," said he.
"He's got brains, hasn't he?"
"Yes; he's smart; mighty smart." The old man's face relaxed in a shrewd grin. "Too damn smart. Giddap, Bet."
And he was gone. Jane stood looking after the ancient phaeton with an expression half of amusement, half of discomfiture. "I might have known," reflected she, "that popsy would see through it all."
When she reappeared in the front doorway Victor Dorn was at the edge of the veranda, ready to depart. As soon as he saw her he said gravely: "I must be off, Miss Hastings. Thank you for the very interesting dinner." He extended his hand. "Good day."
She put her hands behind her back, and stood smiling gently at him. "You mustn't go—not just yet. I'm about to show you the trees and the grass, the bees, the chickens and the cows. Also, I've something important to say to you."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I must go."
She stiffened slightly; her smile changed from friendly to cold. "Oh—pardon me," she said. "Good-by."
He bowed, and was on the walk, and running rapidly toward the entrance gates.