"I think if you young people will—er—excuse me...." His voice was strangely tremulous. "I'm a trifle tired."
"Your father looks kind of knocked up over something," said Roger when the old man had left them. "Anything wrong?"
Her face clouded. "I—don't know. He's been awfully busy. He's not very well. That attack last winter—he's never shaken it off, quite. Sometimes—I'm afraid! Oh, Roger—if anything should happen...." Suddenly she burst into wholly unexpected tears.
Roger, comforting her, experienced a vague satisfaction, for which he knew he should be ashamed—but was not. Molly was such a sturdy soul, so self-sufficient and self-contained, it delighted him to know that she could cry ... just like any ordinary protectible woman.
Upstairs, in his study, the Judge had seated himself before his desk, the tips of his long white fingers clasped together. For a long time he remained immobile, staring blankly at the wall before him. The single green-shaded lamp at his elbow cast grotesque shadows at his infrequent movements. Finally he sighed, as if he were very tired, and put out the light.
II
When the maid went up with the Judge's coffee next morning, she found him already fully dressed.
"Tell O'Neil I'll have the car at once," he said quietly.
"But Miss Wolcott, sir, she's...."