“If I did, I wouldn’t admit it,” the Judge put up a cautious guard, “because I foresee that whatever I say will be used as evidence against me.”
“I’ve torn out all my hair in desperation at hearing such men as you claim to admire and respect and wish to advance the American woman. You don’t give enough thought to her—real thought—from one year’s end to another to know whether you think she has an immortal soul or not!”
“Oh, you can’t get anywhere, trying to reason about those sort of things. You have to take souls for granted. Besides, I give her as fair a deal in that respect as I give myself,” protested Lydia’s father reasonably, smiling and eating.
“There’s something in that, now!” cried his interlocutor, with an odd Celtic lilt which sometimes invaded his speech; “but she has an immortal soul, and I’m by no means sure that yours is still inside you.”
The Judge stood up, brushed the crumbs of his stolen feast from his well-fitting broadcloth, and smiled down indulgently at the unquiet little doctor. “She’s all right, Melton, the American woman, and you’re an unconscionably tiresome old fanatic. That’s what you are! Come along and have a glass of punch with me. Lydia’s cook has a genius for punch—and for sandwiches!” he added reflectively, setting down the empty platter.
Dr. Melton apparently was off on another tangent of excitability. “Did you ever see her?” he demanded with a fiercely significant accent.
The Judge made a humorous wry mouth. “Yes, I have; but what concern is a cook’s moral character to her employer any more than an engineer’s to the railroad—”
“Well, it mightn’t hurt the railroad any if it took more cognizance of its engineers’ morals—” began the doctor dryly.
The Judge cut him short with a great laugh. “Oh, Melton! Melton! You bilious sophomore! Take a vacation from finding everything so damn tragic. Take a drink on me. You’re all right! Everybody’s all right!”
The doctor nodded. “And the reception is the success of the season,” he said.