"Why not?"
"He doesn't do that sort of thing. And if he did, how could I bring
him here?"
"Why not?"
"Well--in the first place, you are a lady--and he is not in your class.
Of course, men can associate with each other in politics and business.
But the social side of life--that's different."
"But a while ago you were talking about my going in for politics," said
Miss Hastings demurely.
"Still, you'd not have to meet SOCIALLY queer and rough characters----"
"Is Victor Dorn very rough?"
The interrupting question was like the bite of a big fly to a sweating
horse. "I'm getting sick of hearing about him from you," cried Hull
with the pettishness of the spoiled children of the upper class.
"In what way is he rough?" persisted Miss Hastings. "If you didn't
wish to talk about Victor Dorn, why did you bring the subject up?"
"Oh--all right," cried Hull, restraining himself. "Victor isn't
exactly rough. He can act like a gentleman--when he happens to want
to. But you never can tell what he'll do next."
"You MUST bring him to call!" exclaimed Miss Hastings.
"Impossible," said Hull angrily.
"But he's the only man I've heard about since I've been home that I've
taken the least interest in."
"If he did come, your father would have the servants throw him off the
place."
"Oh, no," said Hiss Hastings haughtily. "My father wouldn't insult a
guest of mine."
"But you don't know, Jen," cried David. "Why, Victor Dorn attacks your
father in the most outrageous way in his miserable little anarchist
paper--calls him a thief, a briber, a blood-sucker--a--I'd not venture
to repeat to you the things he says."
"No doubt he got a false impression of father because of that damage
suit," said Miss Hastings mildly. "That was a frightful thing. I
can't be so unjust as to blame him, Davy--can you?"
Hull was silent.
"And I guess father does have to do a lot of things in the course of
business---- Don't all the big men--the leaders?"
"Yes--unfortunately they do," said Hull. "That's what gives
plausibility to the shrieks of demagogues like Victor Dorn--though
Victor is too well educated not to know better than to stir up the
ignorant classes."
"I wonder why he does it," said Miss Hastings, reflectively. "I must
ask him. I want to hear what he says to excuse himself." In fact, she
had not the faintest interest in the views of this queer unknown; her
chief reason for saying she had was to enjoy David Hull's jealousy.
"Before you try to meet Victor," said Hull, in a constrained, desperate
way, "please speak to your father about it."
"I certainly shall," replied the girl. "As soon as he comes home this
afternoon, I'm going to talk to him about that damage suit. That has
got to be straightened out." An expression of resolution, of
gentleness and justice abruptly transformed her face. "You may not
believe it, but I have a conscience." Absently, "A curious sort of a
conscience--one that might become very troublesome, I'm afraid--in some
circumstances."
Instantly the fine side of David Hull's nature was to the fore--the
dominant side, for at the first appeal it always responded. "So have
I, Jen," said he. "I think our similarity in that respect is what
draws me so strongly to you. And it's that that makes me hope I can win
you. Oh, Jen--there's so much to be done in the world--and you and I
could have such a splendid happy life doing our share of it."
She was once more looking at him with an encouraging interest. But she
said, gently: "Let's not talk about that any more to-day, Davy."
"But you'll think about it?" urged he.
"Yes," said she. "Let's be friends--and--and see what happens."
Hull strolled up to the house with her, but refused to stop for lunch.
He pleaded an engagement; but it was one that could--and in other
circumstances would--have been broken by telephone. His real reason for
hurrying away was fear lest Jane should open out on the subject of
Victor Dorn with her father, and, in her ignorance of the truth as to
the situation, should implicate him.
She found her father already at home and having a bowl of crackers and
milk in a shady corner of the west veranda. He was chewing in the
manner of those whose teeth are few and not too secure. His brows were
knitted and he looked as if not merely joy but everything except
disagreeable sensation had long since fled his life beyond hope of
return--an air not uncommon among the world's successful men. However,
at sight of his lovely young daughter his face cleared somewhat and he
shot at her from under his wildly and savagely narrowed eyebrows a
glance of admiration and tenderness--a quaint expression for those
cold, hard features.