"Judge Whiting?" she asked.
"Yes," said the Judge.
"I am Linda Strong, the younger daughter of Alexander Strong. I
think you knew my father."
"Yes," said the Judge, "I knew him very well indeed, and I have
some small acquaintance with his daughter through very
interesting reports that my son brings home."
"Yes, it is about Donald that I came to see you," said Linda.
If she had been watching as her father would have watched, Linda
would have seen the slight uplift of the Judge's figure, the
tensing of his muscles, the narrowing of his eyes in the swift,
speculative look he passed over her from the crown of her bare,
roughened black head down the gold-brown of her dress to her
slender, well-shod feet. The last part of that glance Linda
caught. She slightly lifted one of the feet under inspection,
thrust it forward and looked at the Judge with a gay challenge in
her dark eyes.
"Are you interested in them too?" she asked.
The Judge was embarrassed. A flush crept into his cheeks. He
was supposed to be master of any emergency that might arise, but
one had arisen in connection with a slip of a schoolgirl that
left him wordless.
"It is very probable," said Linda, "that if my shoes had been
like most other girls' shoes I wouldn't be here today. I was in
the same schoolroom with your son for three years, and he never
saw me or spoke to me until one day he stopped me to inquire why
I wore the kind of shoes I did.
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