“With me?” Austen repeated.
“You were standing with him, in front of the little house, when I save you yesterday. His name was Redbrook. It appears that he had seen me,” Victoria replied, “when I went to Mercer to call on Zeb Meader. And he asked me if I knew you.”
“Of course you denied it,” said Austen.
“I couldn't, very well,” laughed Victoria, “because you had confessed to the acquaintance first.”
“He merely wished to have the fact corroborated. Mr. Redbrook is a man who likes to be sure of his ground.”
“He told me a very interesting thing about you,” she continued slowly, with her eye upon. Austen's profile. “He said that a great many men wanted you to be their candidate for governor of the State,—more than you had any idea of,—and that you wouldn't consent. Mr. Redbrook grew so enthusiastic that he forgot, for the moment, my—relationship to the railroad. He is not the only person with whom I have talked who has—forgotten it, or hasn't known of it.”
Austen was silent.
“Why won't you be a candidate,” she asked, in a low voice, “if such men as that want you?”
“I am afraid Mr. Redbrook exaggerates,” he said. “The popular demand of which he spoke is rather mythical. And I should be inclined to accuse him, too, of a friendly attempt to install me in your good graces.”
“No,” answered Victoria, smiling, with serious eyes, “I won't be put off that way. Mr. Redbrook isn't the kind of man that exaggerates—I've seen enough of his type to know that. And he told me about your—reception last night at the Widow Peasley's. You wouldn't have told me,” she added reproachfully.