The Governors | Page 8

uncle's permission," she said.
"Quite right," Stella agreed. "Don't run any risks. We shall come across
one another now and then, especially since my father seems determined
to throw open his doors once more to the usual mob. By the by, does he
ever say anything about me?"
"Nothing," Virginia answered, "except that you deceived him. He has
told me that."
"Any particulars?" Stella asked.
"I am not sure," Virginia said, "that I ought to repeat them."
Stella sat quite still for a moment, and a slight frown was on her
forehead.
"He has told you, then, why he sent me away?" she asked.
"Yes!" Virginia answered.
Stella shrugged her shoulders and rose.
"Well," she said, "I mustn't monopolize you any longer, or I shall be in
disgrace."
She walked away with a little nod, leaving behind her a faint but
uncomfortable impression. Virginia, an hour or so later, thought it best
to tell her uncle of this meeting. They were standing together in one of
the reception rooms, waiting for some guests who were coming to dine,
and were alone except for a couple of footmen, who were lighting a
huge candelabrum of wax candles.

"Uncle," Virginia said, "I met Stella this afternoon, and she came and
spoke to me."
He looked at her without change of countenance.
"Well?" he said.
"I thought I ought to tell you," Virginia continued. "I was not sure how
you felt about it."
"I have no objection," he said, resting his hand for a moment upon her
shoulder, "to your talking to her whenever you may happen to meet.
Only remember one thing! She must not enter this house. You must
never ask her here. You must never suffer her to come. You understand
that?"
"I understand," Virginia answered.
"And this man Vine, Mr. Norris Vine, have you met him?" he asked.
Virginia shook her head.
"No!" she said, "I have never seen him since that night at the
restaurant."
"The same thing," Phineas Duge said, "applies to him. Neither of them
must cross the threshold of this house. It is a hard thing to say of one's
own daughter, but those two are in league against me, if their
combination is worth speaking of seriously."
Virginia looked hopelessly puzzled. Phineas Duge hesitated for a
moment, and then continued--
"There are phases of our life here," he said, "which you could not hope
to understand, even if you had been born in this city. But you can
perhaps understand as much as this. In the higher regions of finance
there is very much scheming and diplomacy required. One carries
always secrets which must not be known, and one does things which it
is necessary to conceal for the good of others, as well as for one's own

benefit. I have been for some years engaged in operations whose
success depends entirely upon the secrecy with which they are
conducted. Naturally, there is an opposing side, there always must be.
There are buyers and sellers. If one succeeds, the other must fail, so
you can understand that one has enemies always."
"It sounds," she murmured, "almost romantic, like diplomacy or
politics."
He smiled.
"The secret history of the lives and operations of some of us, who have
made names in this country during the last few years," he said, "would
make the modern romance seem stale. Even odd scraps of news or
surmises are fought for by the Press. The journalists know well enough
where to come for their sensation. Our guests at last, I believe. Don't
forget what I have been saying to you, Virginia."

CHAPTER IV
A MEETING OF GIANTS
Phineas Duge, if his manners preserved still that sense of restraint
which seemed part of the man himself, still made an excellent host. He
sat at the head of his table, a distinguished, almost handsome
personality, his grey hair accurately parted, every detail of his toilette in
exact accordance with the fashions of the moment, his eyes everywhere,
his tongue seldom silent.
Virginia watched him more than once from her seat, in half-unwilling
admiration. She was ashamed to admit that her personal enthusiasm for
him had in any way abated, and yet she was becoming conscious of that
absolute lack of any real cordiality, of any evidence of affection in his
demeanour towards her and every one else with whom he was brought
into contact. She knew very well what the world's account of him was,
for in the old days they had read sketches of his career up in the little

farmhouse amongst the mountains. They had read of his indomitable
will, of his absolute heartlessness, the stern, persistent individuality
which climbs and climbs, heedless of those who must fall by the way.
Perhaps he was really like this. Perhaps her first impressions