Judith, knitting industriously in her corner of the big divan, stopped her busy needles for a moment.
“Polly isn’t looking very well, Father,” she stated slowly. “Don’t give her additional work; she is not very strong.”
Hale looked displeased. “I am not giving her additional work,” he protested. “Polly is behindhand, and it is entirely her own fault. She has been giving too much attention to society and too little to her duties as my secretary.”
“Tut, Judith,” Mrs. Hale promptly took exception to the implied criticism of her husband. “Your father is quite right, he has been most lenient with Polly and her flirtations.”
“I hardly think it is our place to judge Polly.” Judith spoke with increasing earnestness. “The girl tries hard to keep up with her work, and your manuscript is not always easy, Father. You ought to recollect, also, Mother, that she has led a colorless life until this winter. She has a mother entirely dependent upon her, and they are cruelly poor.”
“All the more reason for attending strictly to her work,” grunted Hale, but his voice had softened, as it always did when Judith was a special pleader and that his daughter was much in earnest was plainly evident. “Can’t you manage those notes yourself, Agatha?”
“Let me answer them for you,” broke in Joe Richards, and, rising from his seat under a standing lamp where he had been reading an evening newspaper, he walked over to the divan. “My penmanship used to be pretty fair, and if Judith will dictate what to say—”
“Of course I will,” Judith’s blue eyes flashed him a grateful message. “Now, Father, if you will consent, I wish to give Polly a—a vacation.”
Hale raised his head and contemplated her in surprise. “A vacation?” he echoed. “Come, Judith, that is a different matter; I am willing not to give Polly additional work, but she must complete her regular secretarial duties.”
Richards looked from father to daughter. “Can’t I help out there, also, Mr. Hale?” he asked.