"Where is Jud?" he asked, after the first commonplaces.
"At work in the studio," she replied. He noticed the change of tone, but tried to look uninterested.
"He's working a trifle hard these days, isn't he?" he asked, casually. Somehow, he felt relieved on hearing that Jud was at work. He discovered that he had feared—something, he could not define.
"What is he doing, Celeste?"
"Something for the Milwaukee people I was telling you about not long ago. They insist on having the paintings before the first of February."
"Before February? Why, that's—" But he checked the exhibition of surprise and went on with admirable enthusiasm—"That's a surprisingly nice order. It proves that he has made a hit and that the market for his work is immediate."
"But he is working too hard, Douglass," she cried, unreservedly. The look in his eyes changed instantly.
"I was afraid so," he said. Then, eager to dispel any feeling of hesitancy she might have, he broke out, bluntly: "You are very much disturbed about him, aren't you, Celeste? I know you are, but I think you should find some comfort in knowing that the work will soon be completed and you can both run away for a good rest."
"I can't help being worried," she said, in low tones, as though fearing her words might reach Jud's ear in the distant studio. "Douglass, I want to talk with you about Jud. You will understand, won't you? I wouldn't have asked you to come if it were not that I am very much distressed and need the advice and help of some one."
"Isn't it possible that you are needlessly alarmed?" he asked, earnestly. "I'm sure it can be nothing serious. You will laugh at your fears some day."