The Judge smoked on, his eyes resting on the wall.

“Yes, sir; in love with me.  The truth had to come out sometime, and it came out to-night.  And now the joy of life is gone for me!  As soon as a woman falls in love with a man, his peace is at an end.  But I am determined that it shall not interfere with my practice.”

“What practice?”

“The practice of my profession, sir!  The profession of yourself and of the great men of the past:  such places have to be filled.”

“Filled, but not filled with the same thing.”

“You should have seen the other hapless wretches there to-night!  Pining for a smile!  Moths begging the candle to scorch them!  And the candle was as cold as the north star and as distant.”

Barbee rose and took a turn across the room and returning to his chair stood before it.

“If Marguerite had only waited, had concealed herself a little longer!  Why did she not keep me in doubt until I had won some great case!  Think of a scene like this:  a crowded court room some afternoon; people outside the doors and windows craning their necks to see and hear me; the judge nervous and excited; the members of the bar beside themselves with jealousy as I arise and confront the criminal and jury.  Marguerite is seated just behind the jury; I know why she chose that seat:  she wished to study me to the best advantage.  I try to catch her eye; she will not look at me.  For three hours my eloquence storms.  The judge acknowledges to a tear, the jurors reach for their handkerchiefs, the people in the court room sob like the skies of autumn.  As I finish, the accused arises and addresses the court:  ’May it please your honor, in the face of such a masterly prosecution, I can no longer pretend to be innocent.  Sir (addressing me), I congratulate you upon your magnificent service to the commonwealth.  Gentlemen of the jury, you need not retire to bring in any verdict:  I bring it in myself, I am guilty, and my only wish is to be hanged.  I suggest that you have it done at once in order that nothing may mar the success of this occasion!’ That night Marguerite sends for me:  that would have been the time for declaration!  I have a notion that if I can extricate myself without wounding this poor little innocent, to forswear matrimony and march on to fame.”

“March on to bed.”

“Marguerite is going to give a ball, uncle, a brilliant ball merely to celebrate this irrepressible efflux and panorama of her emotions.  Watch me at that ball, uncle!  Mark the rising Romeo of the firm when Marguerite, the youthful Juliet of this town—­”

A hand waved him quietly toward his bedroom.

“Well, good night, sir, good night.  When the lark sings at heaven’s gate I’ll greet thee, uncle.  My poor Marguerite!—­Good night, uncle, good night.”

He was only nineteen.

The Judge returned to his thoughts.