in the mirror. When the last bulb went out,
the room was in a flickering twilight, the street arc-light blinking
uncertainly into the windows. Judge Emery stood waiting for his daughter
to move. He could scarcely see her form--her face not at all, but there
flashed suddenly upon him the memory of her appealing look toward him
earlier. It shook him as it had then. His heart yearned over her. He
would have given anything he possessed for the habit of intimate talk
with her. He put out his hands, but in the twilight she did not see the
gesture. He felt shy, abashed, horribly ill at ease, torn by his
tenderness, by his sense of remoteness. He said, uncertainly,
"Lydia--Lydia dear--"

She started. "Oh, yes, of course. It's late." She passed, brushed
lightly against him, as he stood trembling with the sense of her
dearness to him. She began to ascend the stairs. He had felt from her
the emanation of excitement, guessed that she was shivering like himself
before a crisis--and he could find no word to say.

She had passed him as though he were a part of the furniture. He had
never talked to her about--about things. He stood at the foot of the
stairs in the darkness, listening to her light, mounting footfall. Once
he opened his mouth to call to her, but the habit of a lifetime closed
it.

"She will talk to her mother," he told himself; "her mother will know
what to say." When he followed her up the stairs he was conscious
chiefly that he was immeasurably tired. Melton, perhaps, had something
on his side with his everlasting warnings about nervous breakdowns. He
could not stand long strains as he used to do.

He fell asleep tracing out the thread of the argument presented that day
by the counsel for the defense.

CHAPTER X

CASUS BELLI

Dr. Melton looked up in some surprise from his circle of lamplight as
his goddaughter came swiftly into the room. "Your mother worse?" he
queried sharply.

"No, no, dear Godfather. I just thought I'd come over and see you for a
while. I had a little headache--Marietta's back from Cleveland to-day,
and she and Flora Burgess are at the house--"

"You've said enough. I'm thankful that you have this refuge to fly to
from such--"

"Oh, Flora's not so bad as you make her out, the queer, kind little old
dowdy--only I didn't feel like talking 'parties,' and 'who's who,'
to-night--and their being with Mother made it all right for me to leave
her."

The doctor took off his eye-shade