"Miss Lacey lives with Edna Derwent at the island in the summer,—keeps house for her, plays watch-dog, and all that sort of thing."
"Indeed? How small the world is! I knew I felt drawn to Miss Lacey. I'd forgotten until you mentioned it how I adore Miss Derwent. Do give me the detail, Judge."
"Get out. You can't do that Boston business. I suppose you'd better mail this letter to Miss Lacey," tossing the missive over to the young man's desk.
"I can take it to her house this evening. I have to go to thank her for my handkerchief that she sent back. Do you want me to—no!" with a sudden turn back to his desk.
"Do I want you to what?"
"Nothing."
"Don't be an idiot!" exclaimed the lawyer, exasperated by his own indecision concerning this affair so foreign to his experience.
"No, it's none of my business," said Dunham.
"Do I want you to ask Miss Lacey if she'll go up to the farm? Yes, I do. Tell her all expenses paid."
After supper that night, for they had supper at six in this rural city of Seaton, John Dunham took a trolley car for the tree-lined street where Miss Lacey's cottage stood behind its row of poplars.