Then he threw himself into a chair across
the room, lighted a cigarette, blew the smoke toward the ceiling
like the steam of a little whistle signalling to stop work.
"Well, uncle," he said in a tone in which a lawyer might announce
to his partner the settlement of a long-disputed point, "Marguerite
is in love with me!"
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.
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