“She—she—is always like that when she plays cards. What has—a—mother to do with trumps—and things?”
“Oh, you heartless child! And after the terrible fright I’ve had! Judge Giffen, your arm. I am not well.”
“Eh, what?” The Judge resented nothing so much as being asked to leave his chess. “Oh—yes—with pleasure. Let us seek the—ah—sympathetic seclusion of the dining room, eh? Mrs. Mearely spoke of sandwiches. Yes—ah—a sustaining sandwich.”
“I couldn’t eat a mouthful. I’m so upset. Corinne’s behaviour—and—oh, Judge—that dreadful face! Oh, if you’d seen the villainous whiskers!”
“Yes—yes—a little—ah—salad. A glass of Amanda’s parsnip wine.” He guided her into the dining room.
“Shall we also refresh the inner soul, Miss Corinne?” Mr. Albert Andrews asked, with gallantry.
“Now I am quite sure that Mrs. Mearely has provided creams and a fine array of iridescent jellies to delight the youthful palate. Go with Andrews, dear child.”
Corinne threw her arms around Dr. Wells’s neck.
“I think you are just too dear for anything, Dr. Wells. I wish I could have you for a father.”
“Heaven forbid!” he answered absently. “Er—that is—thank you, my dear. You are a very sweet girl, Corinne. Yes—considering the circumstances—a remarkably sweet girl,” he added as the dining-room door closed behind the couple. He rose, taking his pipe from his pocket.