The Judge swung her up on the platform, the doctor gave her valise to the conductor, her mother waved her hand, and she was off.
The two men turned away. Not so Mrs. Emery. She was staring after the car in a fierce endeavor to focus her gaze on the interior. “Who was that man that jumped up so surprised to speak to Lydia?”
“I didn’t notice anybody,” said the Judge.
Dr. Melton spoke quickly. “Lydia’s getting in a very nervous state, my friends; I want you to know that. This confounded life is too much for her.”
“She doesn’t kill herself getting up in the morning,” complained her father. “It is a month now since I’ve seen her at breakfast.”
“I don’t let her get up,” said Mrs. Emery. “I guess if you’d been up till two every morning dancing split dances because you were the belle of the season, you’d sleep late! Besides,” she went on, “she’ll be all right as soon as her engagement is announced. The excitement of that’ll brace her up.”
“Good Lord! It’s not more excitement she needs,” began Dr. Melton; but they had reached the house, and Mrs. Emery, obviously preoccupied, pulled her husband quickly in, dismissing the doctor with a nod.
She drew the Judge hurriedly into the hall, and, “It was that Rankin!” she cried, the slam of the door underscoring her words, “and I believe Marius Melton knew he was going on that car and made Lydia late on purpose.”
Judge Emery was in the state in which of late the end of the day’s work found him—overwhelmingly fatigued. He had not an ounce of superfluous energy to answer his wife’s tocsin. “Well, what if it was?” he said.
“They’ll be an hour and a half together—alone—more alone than anywhere except on a desert island. Alone—an hour and a half!”