Adams said “By Jove!” in his most cynical drawl when Winton gave him the dinner-bidding to read: then he laughed.

Winton recovered the dainty note, folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. The handwriting was the same as that of the telegram abstracted from Operator Carter's sending-book.

“I don't see anything to laugh at,” he objected.

“No? First the Rajah sends the sheriff's posse packing without striking a blow, and now he invites us to dinner.”

“You make me exceedingly tired at odd moments, Morty. Why can't you give Mr. Darrah the credit of being what he really is at bottom—a right-hearted Virginia gentleman of the old school?”

“You don't mean that you are going to accept!” said Adams, aghast.

“Certainly; and so are you.”

There was no more to be said, and Adams held his peace while Winton scribbled a line of acceptance on a leaf of his note-book and sent it across to the Rosemary by the hand of the water-boy.

Their reception at the steps of the Rosemary was a generous proof of the aptness of that aphorism which sums up the status post bellum in the terse phrase, “After war, peace.” Mr. Darrah met them; was evidently waiting for them.

“Come in, gentlemen; come in and be at home,”—this with a hand for each. “Virginia allowed you wouldn't faveh us, but I assured her she didn't rightly know men of the world: told her that a picayune business affair in which we are all acting as corporation proxies needn't spell out anything like a blood feud between gentlemen.”

For another man the informal table gathering might have been easily prohibitive of confidences a deux, even with a Virginia Carteret to help, but Winton was far above the trammelings of time and place. He had eyes and ears only for the sweet-faced, low-voiced young woman beside him, and some of his replies to the others were irrelevant enough to send a smile around the board.

“How very absent-minded Mr. Winton seems to be this evening!” murmured Bessie from her niche between Adams and the Reverend Billy at the farther end of the table. “He isn't quite at his best, is he, Mr. Adams?”

“No, indeed,” said Adams, matching her undertone, “very far from it. He has been a bit off all day: touch of mountain fever, I'm afraid.”

“But he doesn't look at all ill,” objected Miss Bessie. “I should say he is a perfect picture of rude health.”

The coffee was served, and Mrs. Carteret was rising. Whereupon Miss Virginia handed her cup to Adams, and so had him for her companion in the tete-a-tete chair, leaving Winton to shift for himself.

The shifting process carried him over to the Rajah and the Reverend Billy, to a small table in a corner of the compartment, and the enjoyment of a mild cigar.

Later, when Calvert had been eliminated by Miss Bessie, Winton looked to see the true inwardness of the dinner-bidding made manifest by his host.

But Mr. Darrah chatted on, affably noncommittal, and after a time Winton began to upbraid himself for suspecting the ulterior motive. And when he finally rose to excuse himself on a letter-writing plea, his leave-taking was that of the genial host reluctant to part company with his guest.

“I've enjoyed your conve'sation, seh; enjoyed it right much. May I hope you will faveh us often while we are neighbors?”

Winton rose, made the proper acknowledgments, and would have crossed the compartment to make his adieus to Mrs. Carteret. But at that moment Virginia came between.

“You are not going yet, are you, Mr. Winton? Don't hurry. If you are dying to smoke a pipe, as Mr. Adams says you are, we can go out on the platform. It isn't too cold, is it?”

“It is clear and frosty, a beautiful night,” he hastened to say. “May I help you with your coat?”

So presently Winton had his heart's desire, which was to be alone with Virginia.

She nerved herself for the plunge,—her uncle's plunge.

“Your part in the building of this other railroad is purely a business affair, is it not?”

“My personal interest? Quite so; a mere matter of dollars and cents, you may say.”

“If you should have another offer, from some other company—”

“That is not your argument; it is Mr. Darrah's. You know well enough what is involved: honor, integrity, good faith, everything a man values, or should value. I can't believe you would ask such a sacrifice of me—of any man.

“Indeed, I do not ask it, Mr. Winton. But it is only fair that you should have your warning. My uncle will leave no stone unturned to defeat you.”

He was still looking into her eyes, and so had courage to say what came uppermost.

“I don't care: I shall fight him as hard as I can, but I shall always be his debtor for this evening. Do you understand?”

In a flash her mood changed and she laughed lightly.

“Who would think it of you, Mr. Winton. Of all men I should have said you were the last to care so much for the social diversions. Shall we go in?”