MID-SEASON NERVES
“If I should wait and read my paper here instead of on the cars, do you suppose Lydia would be up before I left?” asked the Judge as he put his napkin in the ring and pushed away from the breakfast table.
Mrs. Emery looked up, smiling, from a letter, “‘Of course such a great favorite as Miss Emery,’” she read aloud, “‘will be hard to secure, but both the Governor and I feel that our party wouldn’t be complete without her. We’re expecting a number of other Endbury young people.’ And do you know who writes that?” she asked triumphantly of her husband.
“How should I?” answered the Judge reasonably.
“Mrs. Ex-Governor Mallory, to be sure. It’s their annual St. Valentine’s day house-party at their old family estate in Union County.”
The Judge got up, laughing. “Old family estate,” he mocked.
“They are one of the oldest and best families in this State,” cried his wife.
“The Governor’s an old blackguard,” said her husband tolerantly.
“The Mallorys—the Hollisters—Lydia is certainly,” began Mrs. Emery, complacently.
Lydia’s father laughed again. “Oh, with you and Flora Burgess as manager and press agent—! You haven’t answered my question about whether if I waited and—”