Young Croom burst out: “He was a brute to her, of course.”

“You knew him, Mr. Croom?”

“Never seen him in my life.”

“Then—”

“He just thinks it because I left Jerry suddenly. He knows nothing.”

Dinny saw ‘very young’ Roger’s eyes rest on herself. “But you do,” they seemed to say; and she thought: ‘He’s no fool!’

He had returned from the fireplace, walking with a slight limp; sitting down again, he took up the document, narrowed his eyes, and said:

“This isn’t the sort of evidence the Court likes; in fact I’m not sure it’s evidence at all. All the same it’s not a very bright prospect. If you could show strong cause for leaving your husband, and we could get over that night in the car—” He looked, bird-like, first at Clare and then at young Croom. “Still, you can’t let damages and costs like that go by default, when—er—you’ve done nothing.” His eyes fell; and Dinny thought:

‘Not conspicuous—his credulity!’

‘Very young’ Roger lifted a paper-knife.

“We might possibly get the damages agreed at a comparatively nominal sum, if you put in a defence and then didn’t appear. May I ask your monetary position, Mr. Croom?”

“I haven’t a bean, but that doesn’t matter.”

“What exactly will ‘defending’ mean?” asked Clare.

“You’d both go into the box and deny the charges. You’d be cross-examined, and we should cross-examine the petitioner and the enquiry agents. Candidly, unless you can give good reason for having left your husband, you’re almost bound to have the judge against you. And,” he added, in a somewhat human manner, “a night is a night, especially to the divorce court, even in a car; though, as I say, it’s not the sort of evidence generally required.”

“My Uncle thinks,” said Dinny quietly, “that some of the jury, at all events, might believe them, and that the damages, in any case, would be reduced.”

‘Very young’ Roger nodded.

“We’ll see what Mr. Kingson says. I should like to see your father and Sir Lawrence again.”

Dinny went to the door and held it open for her sister and young Croom. Glancing back she saw ‘very young’ Roger’s face. It was as if someone had asked him not to be a realist. He caught her eye, gave a funny little cock of his head, and took out his snuff-box. She shut the door and went up to him.

“You’ll make a mistake if you don’t believe them. They’re speaking the absolute truth.”

“Why did she leave her husband, Miss Cherrell?”

“If she won’t tell you, I can’t. But I’m sure she was right.”

He considered her for a moment with that sharp glance.

“Somehow,” he said suddenly, “I wish it were you.” And, taking snuff, he turned to the General and Sir Lawrence.

“Well?” said the General.

‘Very young’ Roger looked suddenly more sandy.

“If she had good reason for leaving her husband—”

“She had.”

“Father!”

“It appears she isn’t prepared to speak of it.”

“Nor should I be,” said Dinny quietly.

‘Very young’ Roger murmured: “It might make all the difference, though.”

“Serious thing for young Croom, Mr. Forsyte,” put in Sir Lawrence.

“Serious, whether they defend or not, Sir Lawrence. I’d better see them both separately. Then I’ll get Mr. Kingson’s view, and let you know tomorrow. Will that do, General?”

“It revolts me,” said the General, “to think of that fellow Corven!”

“Quite!” said ‘very young’ Roger, and Dinny thought she had never heard a more doubtful sound.

Dinny sat in the little bare waiting-room turning over The Times. Young Croom stood at the window.

“Dinny,” he said, turning, “can you think of any way in which I can make this less beastly for her? It’s all my fault in a sense, but I have tried to keep myself in hand.”

Dinny looked at his troubled face. “I can’t; except by sticking to the exact truth.”

“Do you believe in that chap in there?”

“I rather do. I like his taking snuff.”

“I don’t believe in defending. Why should she be ragged in the witness-box for nothing? What does it matter if they bankrupt me?”

“We must prevent that somehow.”

“D’you think I’d let—”

“We won’t discuss it, Tony. Sufficient unto the day! Isn’t this a dingy place? Dentists try much harder—Marcus Stone on the walls, all the old Bystanders, and you can bring a dog.”

“Could we smoke?”

“Surely.”

“These are only stinkers.”

Dinny took one, and they puffed for a minute in silence.

“It’s too foul!” he said, suddenly. “That fellow will have to come over, won’t he? He never can really have cared a scrap for her.”

“Oh! yes, he did. ‘Souvent homme varie, folle est qui s’y fie!’”

“Well,” said young Croom grimly, “I’d better be kept from him.” He went back to the window and stood looking out. Dinny sat thinking of that scene, when two men had not been kept apart, so pitifully like a dog fight and rending to her in its sequel.

Then Clare came in. There were spots of red in her pale cheeks. “Your turn, Tony.”

Young Croom came from the window, looked hard into her face, and passed into the lawyer’s room. Dinny felt very sorry for him.

“Ugh!” said Clare: “Let’s get out of this!”

On the pavement, she went on:

“I wish now we had been lovers, Dinny, instead of in this mock-pretty state that no one believes in.”

“We DO believe.”

“Oh! you and Dad. But that snuffy rabbit doesn’t, and no one else will. Still, I shall go through with it. I won’t let Tony down, and I won’t give Jerry an inch that I can help giving.”

“Let’s have tea,” said Dinny. “There must be tea somewhere in the City.”

In a crowded thoroughfare they soon saw an A.B.C.

“Then you didn’t like ‘very young’ Roger?” asked Dinny from across the small round table.

“Oh! he’s all right—rather decent, really. I suppose lawyers simply can’t believe. But nothing will shake me, Dinny, about not going into my married life. I will not, and that’s flat.”

“I see his point. You start with the battle half won against you.”

“I won’t allow the lawyers to work it in. We employ them, and they must do what we want. I’m going straight from here to the Temple, by the bye, and perhaps on to the House.”

“Excuse my reverting for a moment; but what are you going to do about Tony Croom till this comes on?”

“Go on just as we were, except for nights in cars. Though what the difference between day and night—in a car, or anywhere else—is, I don’t know.”

“I suppose they go by human nature as a whole.” And Dinny leaned back. So many girls, so many young men, snatching their teas and rolls and buns and cocoa; chatter and silence and a stale effluvium, little tables, and the attendant spirits. What WAS human nature as a whole? Didn’t they say that it had to be changed? The stuffy past wiped out! And yet this A.B.C. was just like the A.B.C. she went into with her mother before the war, and thought so thrilling because the bread was aerated. And the Divorce Court—into which she had never been yet—was that any different?

“Have you finished, old thing?” said Clare.

“Yes. I’ll come with you as far as the Temple.”

As they paused to part at Middle Temple Lane, a rather high and pleasant voice said:

“What luck!” and a light momentary grip was laid on her arm.

“If you’re going straight to the House,” said Clare, “I’ll run on and get my things and join you here.”

“Tactful,” said Dornford. “Let’s stand against this ‘portal.’ When I don’t see you for so long, Dinny, I feel lost. Jacob served for Rachel fourteen years—longevity is not what it was, so every month I serve is equal to one of his years.”

“Rachel and he were walking out.”

“I know. Well, I must just wait and hope. I just HAVE to wait.”

Leaning against the yellow ‘portal’ she looked at him. His face was quivering. Suddenly sorry, she said: