Judge Tiffany gave assent by a slight inclination of his head.
“I went over to the camp of those University boys yesterday,” she went on, running loops with incredible speed, “and I don’t quite like the way they are living there. They associate too much with the cutting-women. You know, Edward, that isn’t good for boys of their age—and they must be nice at bottom or they wouldn’t be trying to work their way through college—”
She stopped as though to note the effect. The ripple of a smile played under Judge Tiffany’s beard. She caught at her next words a little nervously.
“You know we have a responsibility for the people about the place, Edward—I couldn’t bear to think we’d let any nice college boy degenerate because we employed him—and it is so easy at their age.”
“Which means,” broke in the Judge, “that you have asked this Mr. Chester up here to tea.”
“If—if you wish it, Edward.”
“I can’t very well countermand your invitation and tell him by the foreman not to come. But I warn you that this social recognition 22 will serve as no excuse if I catch him picking any more green apricots.”
Mrs. Tiffany, unturned by this breeze of criticism, ran along on her own tack.
“His manners are a little forward, but he has a nice way of speaking. I’m sure he is a gentleman, at bottom. You can’t expect such a young man, who has been obliged to work his way, to have all the graces at once. They’ve brought down their town clothes—I saw them last Sunday—so you needn’t be afraid of that. I’ve asked Mr. Heath, too.”
“Is that by way of another introduction?” asked Judge Tiffany. His eyes looked at her severely, but his beard showed that he was smiling gently again. Half his joy in a welded marriage lay in his appreciation of her humors, as though one should laugh at himself.