"We want so much to see him," she murmured.
Miss Finnegan softened and said that she'd telephone over to the courthouse. He might be able to get over for a minute. She telephoned and hung up the receiver in silence.
"When will he be here?" demanded Lydia.
"When he's at liberty," Miss Finnegan answered coldly.
Waiting did not calm Lydia nor the atmosphere of the office, which proclaimed O'Bannon's power. People kept coming in with the same question—when could they see the district attorney? An old foreigner was there who kept muttering something to Miss Finnegan in broken English.
"Yes, but then your son ought to plead," Miss Finnegan kept saying over and over again, punctuating her sentence with quick roulades on the typewriter.
There was a thin young man with shifty eyes, and a local lawyer with a strong flavor of the soil about him.
Miss Bennett watched Lydia anxiously. The girl was not accustomed to being kept waiting. Her bank, her dentist, the shops where she dealt had long ago learned that it saved everybody trouble to serve Miss Thorne first.
At last O'Bannon entered. Lydia sprang up.
"Mr. O'Bannon——" she began. He held up his hand.