“She knows.” He smiled, and Judy noticed how his smile lightened his face with its rather tragic lines and hollows. “She said nothing but sudden death or an earthquake would get you away from your family. But I’ve been pretty bad. Even Miss McPherson admits that. Very bad. And,” he said, glowering into the corner where Miss McPherson sat, “I may be worse.”
“Well, you won’t be while Miss Pendleton’s here,” said she, “so I’ll just be taking a little air. With your permission.”
“Bless you, run along! Poor child, she’s hardly left me for a minute.”
As Miss McPherson went out, he watched her upright little figure affectionately, from under his strikingly white eyebrows.
“A plucky little soul,” he said, “and she has borne with me wonderfully. Now, Judy, tell me about your trip. Tell me about Claire, everything you can think of, and about Noel and Eric. Good Lord, how good this is!”
Judy sat and talked till the sky turned from blue to deep orange, and the sun, long after it had dropped behind the sea, sent beams like yellow fingers raying up into the clear color its own going had made; till the lovely Esterel Mountains had grown warmly, richly purple—a purple that seemed mixed with gold dust, and the palms, untamed things that they are, made wild and ragged silhouettes against the sunset.
At half-past four a waiter brought in tea, and Miss McPherson, with color in her cheeks, came in to officiate. Judy had talked herself out for the present, so left the conversation to the other two, who sparred in what appeared to be their customary way. She watched the sky deepen to the larkspur blue of night, and saw the lights come pricking out in the harbor, and heard the yacht bells and far-off voices, and knew that she was very content.
As for Stephen, he took her hand for an instant as she was about to go to her room to rest before dressing for dinner, and said:
“Bless you, Judy! I haven’t been as happy as this for over twenty years!”
* * * * * *