“I know another old superstition that might apply—in a sinister way. My grandmother was full of them. To serve as a bride’s attendant, or as godmother at a christening, she held, was fatal to the little—”
Her voice broke and a wave of crimson tumbled over the fair cheek. A shrug of swift annoyance. Why should she be blushing like an unsophisticated school-girl? Larimore Trench caught his breath, and his heart ceased its monotonous beating.
“You adorable being! You vestal-hearted woman! Don’t let me touch you. Judith, Judith, I shall go mad with ecstasy.” He retreated a step, and all at once he laughed, a laugh of sardonic triumph.
“Poor old fool gods! They thought they were destroying man when they cleft him in two. Olympus never realized a thrill like this. Send me to the office, sweetheart. I have to finish the specifications for Miss Sanderson’s studio. How can a man build little tawdry boxes of wood and stone, when his eyes have looked into heaven?”
Judith Ascott was sobbing on his shoulder.
IV
When he had gone, she did an unaccountable thing. She sent a telegram to her father. It was simple and direct. She would be married on Wednesday. It would please her if he could be with her. There would be a train through Littlefield at four o’clock in the afternoon, and she would have Dutton meet him with the car. He could return, via Detroit, at eleven the same night. When the message had gone, she fell to wondering what motive had actuated her. She and her father were, as Griff Ramsay had said, strangers. Lary’s mother? The thought angered her. Yes, she had had recourse to her father ... the only available shield against the small-town criticism that would be reiterated, in veiled innuendo, the rest of her life. It was her father who had pursued her—brought her back to the path of rectitude. Such a father would lend reasonable sanctity to her second marriage! Was she, too, in the thrall of that woman, the slave of that cunning, provincial mind?
She sought for relief in the meeting between Lary and her father. Would he see in her beloved nothing more than a village architect? Would her mother be furious—her mother who had approved Raoul?
At six o’clock the reply came. Mr. Denslow was starting Tuesday for the southwest, where he was to look over some oil properties. He would stop off in Springdale, providing he could get a late train to St. Louis. His explicit telegram made no mention of the occasion for his brief visit in his daughter’s home.