The judge, still breathing heavily, looked at Marley out of his narrowed eyes.
“You know,” Marley said, in an explanatory way, “I love her.”
He waited then, but the judge was motionless, even to the hand that hung at his side over the arm of his chair, still holding his paper. Now and then, at what seemed to be long, unequal intervals, his eyelids fell slowly in heavy winks.
“How long have you and Lavinia known each other?” he asked finally.
“I met her several weeks ago, out at Captain Carter’s. But I did not see her again, that is to speak to her, until about a week ago. In one way I have known her, you might say, but a week; yet I feel that I have known her a long time, always, in fact. I—I—well, I loved her at first sight.” Marley dropped his face at this speech, for it seemed that he had made it too sentimental; he had a feeling that the judge so regarded it. He sat and picked at the braids of straw in his hat.
“And have you spoken to her?” asked the judge.
“Oh yes!” said Marley, looking up quickly.
“And she—?”
“She loves me.”
The judge closed his eyes as if in pain. Then he stirred, the paper dropped from his fingers, and he drew himself up in his chair, as if to deal with the matter.