“Your uncle tells me that Mr. Peterson is growing rich,” Paul remarked. “He seems to have a wise head for business.”
“Yes, he is ambitious that way, and socially, too. He belongs to the best clubs and has a great many friends.”
“Your uncle says he is a member of one of the old aristocratic families and has many influential blood connections.”
“Yes, I think so”—Ethel suddenly glanced at her companion's face and noted that it was rigid, as if under the control of some keen emotion—“but such things do not really count,” she added, consolingly; “they don't make a man any the better.”
Paul said nothing, and the horse drew them along for some distance in silence. Then Ethel took up the subject where it had dropped.
“I am sure you will like Mr. Peterson; he has traveled a great deal. He has an interest in one of the Atlanta papers, and I have heard him speak of having influenced some of the political editorials. For so young a man he is looking far ahead and is very, very shrewd. My uncle declares that he is a born politician, and that sooner or later he will become a candidate for some high office, such even as Senator or Governor.”
Suddenly Paul drew the horse to a standstill. She saw him glance up a very rugged steep over an abrupt cliff on the right.
“I see some violets,” he said. “I've been looking for some all along. If you will hold the reins I'll climb up and get them.”
She gave him a puzzled stare for an instant, and her lips tightened significantly as she answered: “I really would like to have them, but it looks steep and dangerous up there; you might slip and fall over the cliff.”
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled bitterly.