“Yes.”
“How do you like it?”
“I—think I like it. It will not make any difference to me—only the difference that it hasn’t made.”
“A good distinction,” remarked Richard King.
“May I go upstairs, Marion?”
“Surely—your room has been waiting for you as the Holy Land waited for the Israelites to return from their captivity; nobody spoiled either, or occupied either.”
“Mine was not seventy years,” said Judith, “although sometimes it seemed like it.”
Marion did not follow her; it would not be an easy thing to talk to Judith about Don’s marriage; she was relieved that the only view the girl would take of it would be in regard to the difference it made to herself.
When Judith returned, feeling as much at home as though she had been away but for a night, Marion was matching silks for her work, and the gentlemen were talking, sitting opposite each other in the bay window.
It had been so long since she had heard Roger talk; that “talk” was one of the delights of her parsonage life. She had heard him preach but once during her stay at Aunt Affy’s.