“Yes,” he said.
“You have always spared my feelings,” she went on. “Now—now I am asking for the truth—as you see it. Do the Northeastern Railroads wrongfully govern this State for their own ends?”
Austen, too, as he thought over it afterwards, in the night, was surprised at her concise phrasing, suggestive; as it was, of much reflection. But at the moment, although he had been prepared for and had braced himself against something of this nature, he was nevertheless overcome by the absolute and fearless directness of her speech.
“That is a question,” he answered, “which you will have to ask your father.”
“I have asked him,” she said, in a low voice; “I want to know what—you believe.”
“You have asked him!” he repeated, in astonishment.
“Yes. You mustn't think that, in asking you, I am unfair to him in any way—or that I doubt his sincerity. We have been” (her voice caught a little) “the closest friends ever since I was a child.” She paused. “But I want to know what you believe.”
The fact that she emphasized the last pronoun sent another thrill through him. Did it, then, make any difference to her what he believed? Did she mean to differentiate him from out of the multitude? He had to steady himself before he answered:—“I have sometimes thought that my own view might not be broad enough.”
She turned to him again.
“Why are you evading?” she asked. “I am sure it is not because you have not settled convictions. And I have asked you—a favour.”