"But if there be so little truth in things orthodox, why should there be such obligation in an oath?"
"Ah, you still have that in your mind. Look at me. I hold you to that oath. Will you keep it?"
"Yes, but if I did not believe that within a short time something might occur to clear this mystery, I would break it in a minute."
"And let your soul be damned?"
"Now, you are orthodox. Yes, I would break it. But I will wait, in the belief that something must occur."
"There is no way too tortuous for a faith to travel," the old man murmured, but then he bethought himself that to encourage waiting was a furtherance of this humane plan of protection, and then he added: "Yes, wait; we never know, of course. Something might occur. But make me a promise, now in addition to your oath—that if, finally, when nothing does occur and you are resolved to break it, that you will first come to me."
"I will make that promise."
Agnes tripped in with a tune on her lips. The Judge wondered why George Bodney had not fallen in love with her. She was bright enough and pretty enough to ensnare the heart of any man. But Bodney was peculiar, and susceptibility to the blandishments of a bewildering eye was not one of his traits; his nature held itself in reserve for a debasing weakness. Agnes asked Florence why everyone seemed to drift unconsciously into that mouldy old office. Florence did not know, but the Judge said that it was attractive to women because it was their nature to find interest in the machinery of man's affairs. Business was the means with which man had established himself as woman's superior, and there was always a mystery in the appliances of his work-shop.
"What nonsense, Mr. Judge," said Agnes. "It is because there is so much freedom in here. You can't soil anything in here—never can in a place where men stay." Howard passed the door, and the Judge's face darkened. Florence looked at him and her eyes were not soft.
"Now, what are you frowning at, Mr. Judge?" said Agnes. "Do you mean that I haven't told the truth?"