The Judge’s face, folded and far away, as of a priest or of a tortoise, was poked forward suddenly. His gaze, knowing and impersonal, seemed taking her in, and she felt curiously small. He drew his head back, as suddenly.

The slow rich voice behind her began retailing the names and positions of the ‘parties,’ the places of their marriage and cohabitation; it paused a moment and then went on:

“In the middle of September of last year, while the petitioner was up-country in discharge of official duty, the respondent, without a word of warning, left her home and sailed for England. On board the ship was the co-respondent. It is said by the defence, I believe, that these two had not met before. I shall suggest that they had met, or at all events had had every opportunity of so meeting.”

Dinny saw her sister’s little disdainful shrug. “However that may be,” proceeded the slow voice, “there is no question that they were always together on the ship, and I shall show that towards the end of the voyage the co-respondent was seen coming out of the respondent’s stateroom.” On and on the voice drooled till it reached the words: “I will not dwell, members of the jury, on the details of the watch kept on the respondent’s and co-respondent’s movements; you will have these from the mouths of expert and reputable witnesses. Sir Gerald Corven.”

When Dinny raised her eyes he was already in the box, his face carved out of an even harder wood than she had thought. She was conscious of the resentment on her father’s face, of the Judge taking up his pen, of Clare clenching her hands on her lap; of ‘very young’ Roger’s narrowed eyes; of the foreman’s slightly opening mouth, and the third jurywoman’s smothered sneeze; conscious of the brownness in this place—it oozed brownness as if designed to dinge all that was rose, blue, silver, gold, or even green in human life.

The slow voice began its questioning, ceased its questioning; the personable owner of it closed, as it were, black wings; and a different voice behind her said:

“You thought it your duty, sir, to institute these proceedings?”

“Yes.”

“No animus?”

“None.”

“This claim for damages—not very usual, is it, nowadays among men of honour?”

“They will be settled on my wife.”

“Has your wife indicated in any way that she wishes you to support her?”

“No.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that she would not take a penny from you, whether it came from the co-respondent or not?”

Dinny saw the cat-like smile beneath the cut moustache.

“Nothing would surprise me.”

“It did not even surprise you that she left you?”

She looked round at the questioner. So this was Instone, whom Dornford had said was “very handicapped”! He seemed to her to have one of those faces, with dominant noses, that nothing could handicap.

“Yes, that did surprise me.”

“Now, why?… Perhaps you would translate that movement into words, sir?”

“Do wives generally leave their husbands without reason given?”

“Not unless the reason is too obvious to require statement. Was that the case?”

“No.”

“What should you say, then, was the reason? You are the person best able to form an opinion.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who then?”

“My wife herself.”

“Still you must have some suspicion. Would you mind saying what it was?”

“I should.”

“Now, sir, you are on your oath. Did you or did you not ill-treat your wife in anyway?”

“I admit one incident which I regret and for which I have apologised.”

“What was that incident?”

Dinny, sitting taut between her father and her sister, feeling in her whole being the vibration of their pride and her own, heard the slow rich voice strike in behind her.

“My Lord, I submit that my friend is not entitled to ask that question.”

“My Lord—”

“I must stop you, Mr. Instone.”

“I bow to your Lordship’s ruling… Are you a hot-tempered man, sir?”

“No.”

“There would be a certain deliberation about your actions, at all times?”

“I hope so.”

“Even when those actions were not—shall we say—benevolent?”

“Yes.”

“I see; and I am sure the jury also does. Now, sir, let me take you to another point. You suggest that your wife and Mr. Croom had met in Ceylon?”

“I have no idea whether they had or not.”

“Have you any personal knowledge that they did?”

“No.”

“We have been told by my friend that he will bring evidence to show that they had met—”

The slow rich voice interposed:

“That they had had opportunity of meeting.”

“We will take it at that. Were you aware, sir, that they had enjoyed such opportunity?”

“I was not.”

“Had you ever seen or heard of Mr. Croom in Ceylon?”

“No.”

“When did you first know of the existence of this gentleman?”

“I saw him in London in November last, coming out of a house where my wife was staying, and I asked her his name.”

“Did she make any concealment of it?”

“None.”

“Is that the only time you have seen this gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“What made you pitch on him as a possible means of securing a divorce from your wife?”

“I object to that way of putting it.”

“Very well. What drew your attention to this gentleman as a possible co-respondent?”

“What I heard on the ship by which I returned from Port Said to Ceylon in November. It was the same ship as that in which my wife and the co-respondent came to England.”

“And what DID you hear?”

“That they were always together.”

“Not unusual on board ship, is it?”

“In reason—no.”

“Even in your own experience?”

“Perhaps not.”

“What else, if anything, did you hear to make you so suspicious?”

“A stewardess told me that she had seen him coming out of my wife’s stateroom.”

“At what time of day or night was that?”

“Shortly before dinner.”

“You have travelled by sea a good deal, I suppose, in the course of your professional duties?”

“A great deal.”

“And have you noticed that people frequently go to each other’s staterooms?”

“Yes, quite a lot.”

“Does it always arouse your suspicions?”

“No.”

“May I go further and suggest that it never did before?”

“You may not.”

“Are you naturally a suspicious man?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Not what would be called jealous?”

“I should say not.”

“Your wife is a good deal younger than yourself?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Still, you are not so old as to be unable to appreciate the fact that young men and women in these days treat each other with very little ceremony and consciousness of sex?”

“If you want my age, I am forty-one.”

“Practically post-war.”

“I was through the war.”

“Then you know that much which before the war might have been regarded as suspicious has long lost that character?”

“I know that things are all very free and easy.”

“Thank you. Had you ever, before she left you, had occasion to be suspicious of your wife?”

Dinny looked up.

“Never.”

“But this little incident of his coming out of her cabin was enough to cause you to have her watched?”

“That, and the fact that they were always together on the ship, and my having seen him coming out of the house in London.”

“When you were in London you told her that she must come back to you or take the consequences?”

“I don’t think I used those words.”

“What words did you use?”

“I think I said she had the misfortune to be my wife, and that she couldn’t be a perpetual grass widow.”

“Not a very elegant expression, was it?”

“Perhaps not.”

“You were, in fact, eager to seize on anybody or anything to free yourself?”

“No, I was eager for her to come back.”

“In spite of your suspicions?”

“I had no suspicions in London.”

“I suggest that you had ill-treated her, and wished to be free of an association that hurt your pride.”