“Why, Judge! I’m actually surprised! He is most highly esteemed professionally, and in Paris––”
“Pardon me, but I presume his hair was the same color in Paris that it is here,” said the Judge, coldly, “and I have never in my life known a red-headed man who had any sense, or––”
“Oh!” Mrs. McVeigh glanced slowly from the Judge to Judithe and then smiled; “I remember one exception, Judge, for before your hair became white it was––well, auburn, at least.”
The Judge ran his fingers through the bushy curls referred to. The man usually so eloquent and ready of speech, was checkmated. He could only stammer something about exceptions to rules, and finally said:
“You will probably remember, however, that my hair was very dark––a dark red, in fact, a––a––brown red.”
Judithe, to hide her amusement, had moved around to the other side of the tree circled by the rustic seat. Her hostess turned one appealing glance towards her, unseen by the Judge, who had forgotten all but the one woman before him.
“No matter if he had hair all colors of the rainbow he is not worthy of you, Madame,” he blurted out, and Mrs. McVeigh took a step away from him in dismay; in all her knowledge of Judge Clarkson, she had never seen him show quite so intense a dislike for any one.
“Why, Judge! What is the matter tonight?” she asked, in despair. “You mean Dr. Delaven; not worthy of me?”
“He aspires to your hand,” blurted out the Judge, angrily. “Such an ambition is a worthy one; it is one I myself have cherished for years, but you must confess I had the courage to ask your hand in person.”