The coming back from Babylon to Bensalem brought Judith to the consciousness that she might be considered an eavesdropper; at that instant Roger entered in his shirt-sleeves, remarking: “Let’s be informal, like Wordsworth. He used to take out his teeth evenings when he did not expect callers.”
“But you have a caller,” remonstrated Marion, when the laughter ceased.
“Yes, and here’s another one,” Roger replied, as Judith walked softly in. “Judith, must I put on my coat? I’ve been potting plants for Marion and I couldn’t afford to soil my coat.”
“Yes,” said Judith, who was always on Marion’s side in influencing the Bensalem minister to remember the claims of society.
“I wish you had stayed at home. What are you looking so full of news about?”
“I have come back—to stay. No one else in the world wants me.”
“And we don’t,” declared Roger.
Something in the gleam of the eyes under Richard King’s tangled eyebrows was a revelation to Marion. She knew his secret. She would keep it. Roger was stupid, he would never guess. But how could she keep it from Judith? Poor little Judith, was she growing up to have a love story? To-night Marion did not like love stories.
She wished the tall girl with the serious eyes and braided hair were a little girl with long curls.
“Did you get a letter from Don to-night?” Roger asked.