“Ah. Um, very true. But all wasted on the—ah—young cubs, I dare say.” The Judge wisely made no attempt to follow Professor Lee’s analyses. Metaphysics was several points beyond him. He found the movements of Mrs. Lee’s tiny needle, with its almost imperceptible gossamer thread, more interesting.
“Ah. I have become quite absorbed in your work. It seems to be so—ah—marvellously intricate. May I ask what, precisely, you are doing?”
“I am mending a rare old cobweb of lace,” she answered—spreading the white fragment across her palm for him to look at—“and, at the same time, transferring it from its worn-out cambric to a new piece of linen. A very delicate operation, judge; and a labour of love.”
“Ah! indeed?”
“Yes. It is for my granddaughter’s trousseau. She marries in December, and—we feel confident—very happily. Yes, her intended seems a thoroughly settled young man. She met him in Scotland.”
“It is a labour requiring both patience and skill, I should say.”
“I think that patience and skill are the two qualities required most in any labour of love,” she answered, with gentle pleasure in the subject. He peered at the dainty fabric as she cleverly set it into the frame again.
“Now do find us some delicious item,” she urged.
“Ah. To be sure. Here’s something on the first page. I’ve just begun—and it—ah—promises to be exciting, too, which is—ah—rather unusual for the Digest.”
He had just found the place, preparatory to reading, when hubbub burst about the card-table.