She halted on a flagstone of the descending path some six feet above the roadway, and stood expectant. The Rose of Sharon, five and twenty years before, would have been coy--would have made believe to have done it by accident. But the Rose of Sharon, with all her beauty, would have had no attraction for Austen Vane. Victoria had much of her mother's good looks, the figure of a Diana, and her clothes were of a severity and correctness in keeping with her style; they merely added to the sum total of the effect upon Austen. Of course he stopped the buggy immediately beneath her, and her first question left him without any breath. No woman he had ever known seized the essentials as she did. “What have you been doing to my father?” she asked. “Why?” exclaimed Austen. “Because he's in such a bad temper,” said Victoria. “You must have put him in it. It can't be possible that you came all the way up here to quarrel with him. Nobody ever dares to quarrel with him.” “I didn't come up to quarrel with him,” said Austen. “What's the trouble?” asked Victoria. The humour of this question was too much for him, and he laughed. Victoria's eyes laughed a little, but there was a pucker in her forehead. “Won't you tell me?” she demanded, “or must I get it out of him?” “I am afraid,” said Austen, slowly, “that you must get it out of him--if he hasn't forgotten it.” “Forgotten it, dear old soul!” cried Victoria. “I met him just now and tried to make him look at the new Guernseys, and he must have been disturbed quite a good deal when he's cross as a bear to me. He really oughtn't to be upset like that, Mr. Vane, when he comes up here to rest. I am afraid that you are rather a terrible person, although you look so nice. Won't you tell me what you did to him?” Austen was non-plussed. “Nothing intentional,” he answered earnestly, “but it wouldn't be fair to your father if I gave you my version of a business conversation that passed between us, would it?” “Perhaps not,” said Victoria. She sat down on the flagstone with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and looked at him thoughtfully. He knew well enough that a wise general would have retreated--horse, foot, and baggage; but Pepper did not stir. “Do you know,” said Victoria, “I have an idea you came up here about Zeb Meader.” “Zeb Meader!” “Yes. I told my father about him,--how you rescued him, and how you went to see him in the hospital, and what a good man he is, and how poor.” “Oh, did you!” exclaimed Austen. “Yes. And I told him the accident wasn't Zeb's fault, that the train didn't whistle or ring, and that the crossing was a blind one.” “And what did he say?” asked Austen, curiously. “He said that on a railroad as big as his something of the kind must happen occasionally. And he told me if Zeb didn't make a fuss and act foolishly, he would have no cause to regret it.” “And did you tell Zeb?” asked Austen. “Yes,” Victoria admitted, “but I'm sorry I did, now.” “What did Zeb say?”