The young man stirred, looked at Lydia, and smiled brilliantly. "I mustn't keep this little sick-nurse up any later, I suppose," he said; but for a moment he made no movement to go. He and Lydia exchanged a gaze as long and silent as if they had been alone. It occurred to the Judge that they both looked dazzled. When Paul rose he drew a long breath and shook his head half humorously at his host. "You and I will have to look to our guns, during the next season, to hold our own, won't we? I've been making Lydia promise to reserve me three dances at every single ball this winter, and I think I'm heroic not to insist on more--but her first season--!" Lydia said, with her pretty, light laugh, a little shaking now, "But suppose you're out of town, setting up some new dynamo or something and your three dances come along?" Paul crossed the room to her, as if drawn irresistibly by the sound of her voice. He stood by her, looking down into her eyes (he was very tall), bending over her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful. "You're to sit out those three dances and think of me, and think of me--of course! I shall be thinking of you." Lydia's little tremulous air of archness dropped under this point-blank rejoinder. She flushed, and looked at her father. That unimaginative person started toward her as though she had called to him for help, and then, ashamed of his inexplicable impulse, turned away confusedly and disappeared into the hall. Paul took this movement as a frank statement of the older man's desire to be, for the moment, rid of him. "Oh, I _am_ going, Judge," he called after him, unabashed; "it is just a bit hard to tear myself away--I've been waiting so long for her to get back!" To Lydia he went on, "I've grown thin and pale waiting for you, while you--look at yourself, you heartless little witch!" He pointed across to a tall mirror in which they were reflected against the rich background of his roses. For a moment both the beautiful young creatures looked each into his own eyes, mysterious with youth's total ignorance of its own meaning. Paul took Lydia's hand in his, and pointed again to their reflections as they stood side by side. He tried to speak, but for once his ready tongue was silent. Judge Emery came back to the door, a weary patience on his white, tired face. The young man turned away with a sigh and a smile. "Yes, yes, Judge, I'm off. Good-night, Lydia. Don't forget the theater Wednesday night." He crossed the room with a rapid, even step, shook hands with the Judge, and got himself out of the room with an easy briskness which the older man, mindful of his own rustic youth, was half-inclined to envy.