Dave agreed to the appointment and went his way with a feeling of amusement. Old folks are usually curious, he reflected; and they are prone to presume upon the privileges that go with age. In this instance, however, it might be well to make a clean breast of the affair, since Ellsworth was Alaire's attorney, and would doubtless be selected to secure her divorce.
The judge was waiting when Dave called after supper, but for some time he maintained a flow of conversation relating to other things than the one they had met to discuss. At last, however, he appeared to summon his determination; he cleared his throat and settled himself in his chair—premonitory signs unusual in a man of Ellsworth's poise and self-assurance.
"I reckon you think I'm trying to mix up in something that doesn't concern me," he began; "and perhaps I am. Maybe you'll make me wish I'd minded my own business—that's what usually happens. I remember once, out of pure chivalry, trying to stop a fellow from beating his wife. Of course they both turned on me—as they always do. I went to the hospital for a week, and lost a profitable divorce case. However, we try to do our duty as we see it."
This was anything but a promising preamble; Dave wondered, too, at his friend's obvious nervousness.
"So you've found the girl, eh?" the judge went on.
"Yes."
"Are you accepted? I mean, have you asked her to marry you?"
"Of course I have. That's about the first thing a fellow does."
Ellsworth shuffled the papers on his desk with an abstracted gaze, then said, slowly, "Dave—I don't think you ought to marry."
"So you told me once before. I suppose you mean I'm poor and a failure."