The slow rich voice said:

“My Lord, I object.”

“My Lord, the petitioner having admitted—”

“Yes, but most husbands, Mr. Instone, have done something for which they have been glad to apologise.”

“As your Lordship pleases… In any case, you gave instructions to have your wife watched. When exactly did you do that?”

“When I got back to Ceylon.”

“Immediately?”

“Almost.”

“That did not show great eagerness to have her back, did it?”

“My view was entirely changed by what I was told on the ship.”

“On the ship. Not very nice, was it, listening to gossip about your wife?”

“No, but she had refused to come back, and I had to make up my mind.”

“Within two months of her leaving your house?”

“More than two months.”

“Well, not three. I suggest, you know, that you practically forced her to leave you; and then took the earliest opportunity open to you to ensure that she shouldn’t come back?”

“No.”

“So you say. Very well! These enquiry agents you employed—had you seen them before you left England to return to Ceylon?”

“No.”

“Will you swear that?”

“Yes.”

“How did you come to hit upon them?”

“I left it to my solicitors.”

“Oh! then you had seen your solicitors before you left?”

“Yes.”

“In spite of your having no suspicions?”

“A man going so far away naturally sees his solicitors before he starts.”

“You saw them in relation to your wife?”

“And other matters.”

“What did you say to them about your wife?”

Again Dinny looked up. In her was growing the distaste of one seeing even an opponent badgered.

“I think I simply said that she was staying behind with her people.”

“Only that?”

“I probably said that things were difficult.”

“Only that?”

“I remember saying: ‘I don’t quite know what’s going to happen.’”

“Will you swear you did not say: ‘I may be wanting you to have her watched’?”

“I will.”

“Will you swear that you said nothing which conveyed to them the idea that you had a divorce in your mind?”

“I can’t tell you what was conveyed to them by what I said.”

“Don’t quibble, sir. Was the word divorce mentioned?”

“I don’t remember it.”

“You don’t remember it? Did you or did you not leave them with the impression that you might be wanting to take proceedings?”

“I don’t know. I told them that things were difficult.”

“So you have said before. That is not an answer to my question.”

Dinny saw the Judge’s head poked forward.

“The petitioner has said, Mr. Instone, that he does not know the impression left on his lawyers’ minds. What are you driving at?”

“My Lord, the essence of my case—and I am glad to have this opportunity of stating it succinctly—is that from the moment the petitioner had acted in such a way—whatever it was—as caused his wife to leave him, he was determined to divorce her, and ready to snatch at anything that came along to secure that divorce.”

“Well, you can call his solicitor.”

“My Lord!”

Those simple words were like a shrug of the shoulders put into sound.

“Well, go on!”

With a sigh of relief Dinny caught the sound of finality in the voice of the ‘handicapped’ Instone.

“You wish to suggest to the jury that although you instituted these proceedings on the first and only gossip you heard, and although you added a claim for damages against a man you have never spoken to—that in spite of all this you are a forbearing and judicious husband, whose only desire was that his wife should come back to him?”

Her eyes went for the last time to the face up there, more hidden by its mask than ever.

“I wish to suggest nothing to the jury.”

“Very well!”

There was a rustling of silk behind her.

“My Lord,” the slow, rich voice intoned, “since my friend has made so much of the point, I will call the petitioner’s solicitor.”

‘Very young’ Roger, leaning across, said:

“Dornford wants you all to lunch with him…”

Dinny could eat practically nothing, afflicted by a sort of nausea. Though more alarmed and distraught during Hubert’s case, and at the inquest on Ferse, she had not felt like this. It was her first experience of the virulence inherent in the conduct of actions between private individuals. The continual suggestion that the opponent was mean, malicious and untruthful, which underlay every cross-examining question, had affected her nerves.

On their way back to the court, Dornford said:

“I know what you’re feeling. But remember, it’s a sort of game; both sides play according to the same rules, and the Judge is there to discount exaggeration. When I try to see how it could be worked otherwise, I can’t.”

“It makes one feel nothing’s ever quite clean.”

“I wonder if anything ever is.”

“The Cheshire cat’s grin did fade at last,” she murmured.

“It never does in the Law Courts, Dinny. They should have it graven over the doors.”

Whether owing to that short conversation, or because she was getting used to it, she did not feel so sick during the afternoon session, devoted to examination and cross-examination of the stewardess and enquiry agents. At four o’clock the petitioner’s case was closed, and ‘very young’ Roger cocked his eye at her, as who should say: “The Court will now rise, and I shall be able to take snuff.”

In the taxi, on the way back to South Square, Clare was silent, till, opposite Big Ben, she said suddenly:

“Imagine his peering in at us in the car when we were asleep! Or did he just invent that, Dinny?”

“If he’d invented it, he would surely have made it more convincing still.”

“Of course, my head WAS on Tony’s shoulder. And why not? You try sleeping in a two-seater.”

“I wonder the man’s torch didn’t wake you.”

“I daresay it did; I woke a lot of times with cramp. No; the stupidest thing I did, Dinny, was asking Tony in for a drink that night after we went to the film and dined. We were extraordinarily green not to realise we were being shadowed. Were there a frightful lot of people in Court?”

“Yes, and there’ll be more tomorrow.”

“Did you see Tony?”

“Just a glimpse.”

“I wish I’d taken your advice and let it go. If only I were really in love with him!”

Dinny did not answer.

Aunt Em was in Fleur’s ‘parlour.’ She came towards Clare, opened her mouth, seemed to remember that she shouldn’t, scrutinised her niece, and said suddenly:

“Not so good! I do dislike that expression; who taught it me? Tell me about the Judge, Dinny; was his nose long?”

“No; but he sits very low and shoots his neck out.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask him, dear.”

Lady Mont turned to Fleur.

“Can Clare have her dinner in bed? Go and have a long bath, my dear, and don’t get up till tomorrow. Then you’ll be fresh for that Judge. Fleur, you go with her, I want to talk to Dinny.” When they had gone, she moved across to where the wood fire burned.

“Dinny, comfort me. Why do we have these things in our family? So unlike—except your great-grandfather; and he was older than Queen Victoria when he was born.”

“You mean he was naturally rakish?”

“Yes, gamblin’, and enjoyin’ himself and others. His wife was long-sufferin’. Scottish. So odd!”

“That, I suppose,” murmured Dinny, “is why we’ve all been so good ever since.”

“What is why?”

“The combination.”

“It’s more the money,” said Lady Mont; “he spent it all.”

“Was there much?”

“Yes. The price of corn.”

“Ill-gotten.”

“His father couldn’t help Napoleon. There were six thousand acres then, and your great-grandfather only left eleven hundred.”

“Mostly woods.”

“That was the woodcock shootin’. Will the case be in the evenin’ papers?”