"Mrs. Ex-Governor Mallory, to be sure. It's their annual St. Valentine's day house-party at their old family estate in Union County." The Judge got up, laughing. "Old family estate," he mocked. "They are one of the oldest and best families in this State," cried his wife. "The Governor's an old blackguard," said her husband tolerantly. "The Mallorys--the Hollisters--Lydia is certainly," began Mrs. Emery, complacently. Lydia's father laughed again. "Oh, with you and Flora Burgess as manager and press agent--! You haven't answered my question about whether if I waited and--" "No, she wouldn't," said Mrs. Emery decisively. "After dancing so late nights, I want her to sleep every minute she's not wanted somewhere. _I_ have the responsibility of looking after her health, you know. I hope she'll sleep now till just time to get up and dress for Marietta's lunch-party at one o'clock." The father of the family frowned. "Is Marietta giving another lunch-party for Lydia? They can't afford to do so much. Marietta's--" "This is a great chance for Marietta--poor girl! she hasn't many such chances--Lydia's carrying everything before her so, I mean." "How does Marietta get into the game?" asked her father obtusely. Mrs. Emery hesitated a scarcely perceptible instant, a hesitation apparently illuminating to her husband. He laughed again, the tolerant, indifferent laugh he had for his women-folks' goings-on. "She thinks she can go up as the tail to Lydia's kite, does she? She'd better not be too sure. If I don't miss my guess, Paul'll have a word or two to say about carrying extra weight. Gosh! Marietta's a fool some ways for a woman that has her brains." He stated this opinion with a detached, impersonal irresponsibility, and began to prepare himself for the plunge into the damp cold of the Endbury January. His wife preserved a dignified silence, and in the middle of a sentence of his later talk, which had again turned on his grievance about never seeing Lydia, she got up, went into the hall, and began to use the telephone for her morning shopping. Her conversation gave the impression that she was ordering veal cutlets, maidenhair ferns, wax floor-polish, chiffon ruching, and closed carriages, from one and the same invisible interlocutor, who seemed impartially unable to supply any of these needs without rather testy exhortation. Mrs. Emery was one of the women who are always well served by "tradespeople," as she now called them, "and a good reason why," she was wont to explain with self-gratulatory grimness. The Judge waited, one hand on the door-knob, squaring his jaw over his muffler, and listening with a darkening face to the interminable succession of purchases. After a time he released the door-knob, loosened his muffler, and sat down heavily, his eyes fixed on his wife's back.