To the great relief of Eleanor, Mrs. Tiffany came out to meet them, took the box from Bertram and accompanied them back to the tea table. For the rest of the afternoon, 35 Eleanor managed by one device or another to save the situation. When, in the shifting of group and group, she had no one else for protection, Teresa Morse, following her like a dog, ready to come to her side at a glance, played the involuntary chaperone.
Judge Tiffany had no word alone with his wife until the sun slanted low across the orchard and the company broke up. When he met her apart, he said:
“He ought to be a success, that protegé of yours!”
“I have been dreadfully mortified!”
“Oh, not a social success, though that may come too, if he ever perceives the necessity for it. But a general success. Such simple and unturned directness as his ought to win out anywhere. It is more than enchanting. It is magnificent. I’m willing to risk discipline on the place just to study a specimen so unusual. Mattie, this time I am going to assist. I’m going to ask him to supper.”
“Edward, are you laughing at me again?”
“For once, my dear, no; not at least on the main line. You’d better ask that Mr. Heath, too.”
The Judge looked across to the oak tree, where Eleanor was ostentatiously tying up the brown braids of Teresa Morse. Bertram, talking athletics with Goodyear, had her under fire of his eyes.
“If any young person was ever capable to make that choice, it is your niece Eleanor,” he said. “It might afford study. Yes, ask her, too.”