Judith looked up from her knitting as Richards paused by the side of the divan and regarded her.
“Do you feel ill, dearest?” he asked, and the concern in his tone brought a touch of color to her wan cheeks.
“No, only—” Judith hesitated. “Father is right, I am very tired—I couldn’t sleep last night.” Her usually clear voice quivered; another second and Richards’ arms were around her and her head was pillowed on his broad shoulder.
“My dear, dear love,” he murmured. “Judith, don’t cry, my darling, don’t”—in distress, as her self-control gave way. The storm of tears ceased almost as abruptly as it started, and Judith met her husband’s tender glance with a brave little smile.
“I am not often inclined to hysterics,” she whispered. “Forgive me, dear.”
“Forgive you!” Richards laughed softly. “Always, dear heart. Judith”—and his clasp tightened—“you have no idea how precious you are to me; how I worship you”—his strong voice grew rough with emotion. “I am not half worthy of you.”
“Hush!” Judith placed a tender finger across his lips. “Don’t say that, Joe. The world never held such happiness for me until I met you, and there has been no shadow until”—she faltered a minute—“until yesterday.”
“Until yesterday?” Richards’ astonishment was plain. “You mean Austin’s funeral?”
“No.” Judith colored warmly. “I mean your leaving after dinner last night without saying anything to me and—and—your getting back so late, or rather, so early this morning.”
“Good gracious, Judith!” Richards chuckled, then grew grave. “John asked me to go to the club, and I left word with your father—didn’t he give you the message?”