“Ah, well, then that’s all right,” said the Judge comfortably.
There was a pause, during which Lydia looked at the fire dreamily, and he looked at Lydia. The girl’s face grew more and more absent and brooding.
The door-bell rang. “There he is, I suppose,” said her father.
“But isn’t it a pity we couldn’t make connections?” she asked musingly. “Maybe I’d have liked you better with your nose on, better even than pretty trash.”
“Eh?” said Judge Emery. His blankness was so acute that he slipped for an instant back into a rusticity he had long ago left behind him. “What say, Lydia?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, Paul; I didn’t hear you come in,” called the girl, jumping up and beginning to put on her wraps.
The young man darted into the room to help her, saying over his shoulder: “Much obliged to you, Judge, for your good word to Egdon, March and Company. I got the contract for the equipment of their new factory to-day.”
The Judge screwed himself round in his chair till he could see Paul bending at Lydia’s feet, putting on her high overshoes. “That’s quite a contract, isn’t it?” he asked, highly pleased.
“The biggest I ever got my teeth into,” said Paul, straightening up. “I’m ashamed to have Lydia know anything about it, though. I didn’t bring a hack to take her to the dance.”
“Oh, I never thought you would,” cried Lydia, standing up and stamping her feet down in her overshoes—an action that added emphasis to her protest. “I’d rather walk, it’s such a little way. I like it better when I’m not costing people money.”