“Making wedding finery, eh?” was Freke’s remark as he seated himself.
“Yes,” answered Judith, quietly, without laying down her work.
“I want to see how much Jacqueline will be changed by marriage—You mustn’t flirt with Jack, little Jacky.”
He said this quite good-humoredly, and Jacqueline turned a warm color.
“And don’t let me see you running after the chickens, as I saw you the other day. That wouldn’t be dignified, you know; it would make Major Throckmorton ridiculous. You must do all you can to keep the difference in your ages from becoming too obvious.”
Judith felt a rising indignation. Jacqueline’s head was bent lower. She dreaded and feared that people would tease her about Throckmorton’s age. Freke saw in a moment how it was with her, and kept it up.
“Throckmorton is sensible in one way. His hair is plentifully sprinkled with gray, but he doesn’t use art to conceal it.”
“I do not think forty-four is old,” said Judith, indignant at Jacqueline’s tame submission to this sort of talk. “I think, with most women, Major Throckmorton would have the advantage over younger men.”
As soon as she said this, she repented. Freke glanced at her with a look so amused and so exasperating that she could have burst into tears of shame on the spot.