The Judge demurred. “I often wish I could think he was—but Melton’s no fool.” He added, uneasily, “He’s been pestering me again about taking a long rest—says I’m really out of condition.”
“Perhaps a change of work would do you good—to be in active practice again. You could be your own master more—take more vacations, maybe.”
The Judge surveyed her with a whimsical smile. “I’d make a lot more money in practice,” he admitted.
If she heard this comment she made no sign, but went on, “You do work too constantly, too. I’ve always said so! If you’d be willing to take a little more relaxation—go out more—”
Judge Emery shuddered. “Endbury tea-parties—!”
His wife, half-way up the stairs, laughed down at him. “Tea-parties! There hasn’t been a tea-party given in Endbury since we were wearing pull-backs.”
The laugh was so good-natured that the Judge hoped for a favorable opening and ventured to say irrelevantly, as though reverting automatically to a subject always in his mind, “But, honest, Susie, can’t we shave expenses down some? This winter is costing—”
She turned on him, not resentfully this time, but with a solemn appeal. “Why, Nat! Lydia’s season! The last winter we’ll have her with us, no doubt! I’d go on bread and water afterward to give her what she wants now—wouldn’t you? What are we old folks good for but to do our best by our children?”
The Judge looked up at her, baffled, inarticulate. “Oh, of course,” he agreed helplessly, “we want to do the best by our children.”