The judge looked at his wife in surprise.
“Well, I suppose you know, don’t you,” he said, “that such cases are taken on contingent fees?” He spoke with the natural judicial contempt of the poor litigant.
“Of course, dear,” she replied, “I shall not undertake to defend Mr. Powell. He’s a wild sort.”
“Yes; a drunkard, practically,” said Judge Blair, “and an infidel besides. The moral environment there is certainly not one for a young man—”
“Is he really an infidel?” asked Mrs. Blair, abruptly dropping her knife and fork.
“Well,” replied the judge with the judicial affectation of fairness, “he’s at least a free-thinker. Perhaps agnostic were the better word. That is one reason why I can not understand Doctor Marley’s permitting his son to be associated with him. It seems to me to argue a weakness, or a lack of observation in the doctor, as it does a certain depravity of taste in his son.”
They discussed Marley until the meal was done, and Connie and Chad had gone out of doors. Judge Blair followed his wife into the sitting-room.
“I’m worried, I’ll admit,” said the judge. “What could it have been that so distressed her?”
“Oh well, the children’s little quarrels were too much for her nerves.”
“I suppose so.”