“D’you suppose they’ll believe us if we do defend? I don’t.”

“We shall be telling the exact truth.”

“People never believe the exact truth. What train are you going down by?”

“Ten-fifty.”

“Shall I come too, or in the afternoon from Bablock Hythe?”

“That’s best. I’ll have broken it to them.”

“Will they mind frightfully?”

“They won’t like it.”

“Is your sister there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s something.”

“My people are not exactly old-fashioned, Tony, but they’re not modern. Very few people are when they’re personally involved. The lawyers and the judge and jury won’t be, anyway. You’d better go now; and promise me not to drive like Jehu.”

“May I kiss you?”

“It’ll mean one more piece of exact truth, and there’ve been three already. Kiss my hand—that doesn’t count.”

He kissed it, muttered: “God bless you!” and, grabbing his hat, went out.

Clare turned a chair to the unwinking warmth of the electric fire, and sat brooding. The dry heat burned her eyes till they felt as if they had no lids and no capacity for moisture; slowly and definitely she grew angrier. All the feelings she had experienced, before she made up her mind that morning in Ceylon to cut adrift, came back to her with redoubled fury. How dared he treat her as if she had been a ‘light of love’?—worse than if she had been one—a light of love would never have stood it. How dared he touch her with that whip? And now how dared he have her watched, and bring this case? She would not lie down under this!

She began methodically to wash up and put the things away. She opened the door wide and let the wind come in. A nasty night, little whirlwinds travelling up and down the narrow Mews!

‘Inside me, too,’ she thought. Slamming-to the door, she took out her little mirror. Her face seemed so natural and undefended that it gave her a shock. She powdered it and touched her lips with salve. Then, drawing deep breaths, she shrugged her shoulders, lit a cigarette, and went upstairs. A hot bath!

The atmosphere at Condaford into which she stepped next day was guarded. Her words, or the tone of her voice on the telephone, seemed to have seeped into the family consciousness, and she was aware at once that sprightliness would deceive no one. It was a horrible day, too, dank and cold, and she had to hold on to her courage with both hands.

She chose the drawing-room after lunch for disclosure. Taking the document from her bag, she handed it to her father with the words:

“I’ve had this, Dad.”

She heard his startled exclamation, and was conscious of Dinny and her mother going over to him.

At last he said: “Well? Tell us the truth.”

She took her foot off the fender and faced them.

“THAT isn’t the truth. We’ve done nothing.”

“Who is this man?”

“Tony Croom? I met him on the boat coming home. He’s twenty-six, was on a tea plantation out there, and is taking charge of Jack Muskham’s Arab mares at Bablock Hythe. He has no money. I told him to come here this afternoon.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“No. I like him.”

“Is he in love with you?”

“Yes.”

“You say there’s been nothing?”

“He’s kissed my cheek twice, I think—that’s all.”

“Then what do they mean by this—that you spent the night of the third with him?”

“I went down in his car to see his place, and coming back the lights failed in a wood about five miles from Henley—pitch dark. I suggested we should stay where we were till it was light. We just slept and went on up when it was light.”

She heard her mother give a faint gasp, and a queer noise from her father’s throat.

“And on the boat? And in your rooms? You say there was nothing, though he’s in love with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Is that absolutely the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” said Dinny, “it’s the truth.”

“Of course,” said the General. “And who’s going to believe it?”

“We didn’t know we were being watched.”

“What time will he be here?”

“Any time now.”

“You’ve seen him since you had this?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“What does he say?”

“He says he’ll do whatever I wish.”

“That, of course. Does HE think you’ll be believed?”

“No.”

The General took the document over to the window, as if the better to see into it. Lady Charwell sat down, her face very white. Dinny came over to Clare and took her arm.

“When he comes,” said the General suddenly, returning from the window, “I’ll see him alone. Nobody before me, please.”

“Witnesses out of court,” murmured Clare.

The General handed her the document. His face looked drawn and tired.

“I’m terribly sorry, Dad. I suppose we were fools. Virtue is NOT its own reward.”

“Wisdom is,” said the General. He touched her shoulder and marched off to the door, followed by Dinny.

“Does he believe me, Mother?”

“Yes, but only because you’re his daughter. He feels he oughtn’t to.”

“Do you feel like that, Mother?”

“I believe you because I know you.”

Clare bent over and kissed her cheek.

“Very pretty, Mother dear; but not cheering.”

“You say you like this young man. Did you know him out there?”

“I never saw him till the boat. And, Mother, I may as well tell you that I’ve not been in the mood for passion. I don’t know when I shall be again. Perhaps never!”

“Why not?”

Clare shook her head. “I won’t go into my life with Jerry, not even now, when he’s been such a cad as to ask for damages. I’m really much more upset about that than I am about myself.”

“I suppose this young man would have gone away with you, at any moment?”

“Yes; but I haven’t wanted to. Besides, I gave Aunt Em a promise. I sort of swore to behave for a year. And I have—so far. It’s terribly tempting not to defend, and be free.”

Lady Charwell was silent.

“Well, Mother?”

“Your father is bound to think of this as it affects your name and the family’s.”

“Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, so far as that goes. If we don’t defend, it will just go through and hardly be noticed. If we do, it will make a sensation. ‘Night in a car,’ and all that, even if we’re believed. Can’t you see the papers, Mummy? They’ll be all over it.”

“I think,” said Lady Charwell slowly, “it will come back in the end to the feeling your father has about that whip. I’ve never known him so angry as he was over that. I think he will feel you must defend.”

“I should never mention the whip in court. It’s too easily denied, for one thing; and I have some pride, Mother…”

Dinny had followed to the study, or barrack-room, as it was sometimes called.

“You know this young man, Dinny?” burst out the General.

“Yes, and I like him. He IS deeply in love with Clare.”

“What business has he to be?”

“Be human, dear!”

“You believe her about the car?”

“Yes. I heard her solemnly promise Aunt Em to behave for a year.”

“Queer sort of thing to have to promise!”

“A mistake, if you ask me.”

“What!”

“The only thing that really matters is that Clare should get free.”

The General stood with head bent, as if he had found food for thought; a slow flush had coloured his cheek-bones.

“She told you,” he said suddenly, “what she told me, about that fellow having used a whip on her?”

Dinny nodded.

“In old days I could and would have called him out for that. I agree that she must get free, but—not this way.”

“Then you DO believe her?”

“She wouldn’t tell a lie to us like that.”

“Good, Dad! But who else will believe them? Would you, on a jury?”

“I don’t know,” said the General, glumly.

Dinny shook her head. “You wouldn’t.”

“Lawyers are damned clever. I suppose Dornford wouldn’t take up a case like this?”