"I'll tell him so, Mr. Vane," she said.
Austen turned, with a seriousness that dismayed her.
"I must ask you as a favour not to do that," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"In the first place," he answered quietly, "I cannot afford to have Mr. Flint misunderstand my motives. And I ought not to mislead you," he went on. "In periods of public controversy, such as we are passing through at present, sometimes men's views differ so sharply as to make intercourse impossible. Your father and I might not agree—politically, let us say. For instance," he added, with evident hesitation, "my father and I disagree."
Victoria was silent. And presently they came to a wire fence overgrown with Virginia creeper, which divided the shaded road from a wide lawn.
"Here we are at the Hammonds', and—thank you," she said.
Any reply he might have made was forestalled. The insistent and intolerant horn of an automobile, followed now by the scream of the gears, broke the stillness of the country-side, and a familiar voice cried out—"Do you want the whole road?"
Austen turned into the Hammonds' drive as the bulldog nose of a motor forged ahead, and Mr. Crewe swung in the driver's seat.
"Hello, Victoria," he shouted, "you people ought to have ear-trumpets."