d left me at Dr. Melton's with Aunt
Julia. I used to see him there a lot. He used to talk to the doctor by
the hour, and Aunt Julia and I were doing that set of doilies in
Hardanger work and we used to sit and sew and count threads and listen."

"That's the one," said her father. "Melton has one of his flighty
notions that the man is something wonderful."

"But he wasn't queer or anything then!" protested Lydia. "He never
talked to me any, of course, I was such a kid, but it was awfully
interesting to hear him and Godfather go on about morals, and the
universe, and the future of man, and such--I never heard such talk
before or after--but it can't be that one!" Lydia broke off to marvel
incredulously at the possibility. "He was--why, he was awfully nice!"
she fell back on reiteration to help out her affirmation.

"They say there's queer blood in the family, and I guess he's got his
share," Judge Emery summed up and dismissed the case with a gesture of
finality. He glanced up at a tall clock standing in the corner, compared
its time with his watch, exclaimed impatiently, "Slow again!" and
addressed himself with a householder's seriousness to setting it right.

A new aspect of the matter they had been discussing struck Lydia. "But
what does he--what do people do about him?" she asked.

This misty inquiry was as intelligible to her mother as a cipher to the
holders of a key. "Oh, he's very nice about that. He has dropped out of
society completely and keeps out of everybody's way. Of course you see
him when he comes to set up a piece of his furniture or to take an
order, but that's all. And he used to be so popular!" The regret in the
last clause was that of a thrifty person before waste of any kind. "I
understand he still goes to Dr. Melton's a good deal, but that just
counts him in as one of the doctor's collection of freaks; it doesn't
mean anything. You know how your godfather goes on about--" She broke
off to look out the window. "Oh, Lydia! your trunks are here. Quick!
where are your keys? It seems as though I couldn't wait to see your
dresses!" She hurried to the door and vanished.

Lydia did not stir for a moment. She was looking down at the table,
absorbed in watching the dim reflections of her pink finger-tips as she
pressed them one after another upon the dark polished wood. Her father
opened the door of the clock with a little click, but she did not heed
it. She drew her hand away from the table and inspecte