Nothing could be more fair than his observations—or so it appeared to the majority of Campion's hearers. No doubt he had referred to the affair at Aix-les-Bains as though it were a matter of evidence, instead of mere allegation, and to the recent quarrels in England as though the "faults on both sides" had been clearly established. But he was supposed to be speaking in strict accordance with his instructions, and, of course, it was open to the defence to question anything which he had said.
Then came the evidence for the prosecution, the substance of which is already known to the reader; but Cora's account of the quarrel in Surrey Street was so ingeniously colored and distorted that Alan found himself listening with something like genuine amusement to the questions of counsel and the replies of his lying wife.
"And so," said Mr. Campion, after she had spoken of her earnest appeal for the renewal of friendship, and of her husband's insulting refusal, "you came to high words. Did you both keep the same positions whilst you were talking?"
"For a long time, until I lost patience, and then—yes, let me speak the whole truth—I threw a certain book at him."
Cora was on the point of saying why she threw the book, and whose name was on the title-page, but she checked herself in time. It had been very difficult to persuade her that her interests were safe in the hands of Lettice's brother, and even now she had occasional misgivings on that point. Sydney went on quickly.
"A book lying close to your hand, you mean?"
"She said a certain book," Mr. Milton interjected.
"You must make allowance for her," said the judge. "You know she is French, and you should follow her in two languages at once. No doubt she meant 'some book or other.' The point has no importance."
"And then," said Sydney, "you altered your positions?"
"We stood facing each other."