Lydia moved her shoulders with a gesture that confirmed Miss Bennett's impression, and then suddenly turned.
"I don't believe you want me for a few minutes, Mr. Wiley. I want to speak to Eleanor."
She dragged her friend away with her to her own little sitting room upstairs. Here her calm disappeared.
"Aren't lawyers terrible, Eleanor? Here I am—I've killed a man! Why shouldn't I go to prison? I'm not quixotic. I didn't want to be convicted, but Wiley shocks me, assuming that I can't be because I'm a woman and rich and he can play on the jury."
"I should not say that he assumed that you were safe, Lydia."
"Oh, yes, he does! Don't be like Benny. She sees me in stripes at once. What Wiley means is that as long as I am fortunate enough to have the benefit of his services I'm perfectly safe, not because I did not mean to kill Drummond, but because he, Wiley, will make the jury cry over me. Isn't that disgusting?"
"Yes, it is," said Eleanor.
"Oh, Eleanor, you are such a comfort!" said Lydia, and began to cry. Eleanor had never seen her cry before. She did it very gently, without sobs, and after a few minutes controlled herself again, and tucked away her handkerchief and said, "Do you think everyone would hate to have a car that had killed someone! I shall never drive again, and yet I couldn't sell it—couldn't take money for it. Will you accept it, Eleanor? You wouldn't have to drive the way I did, you know."
Eleanor, pleading the shortness of her sight, declined the car.
"You ought to go back and talk to Mr. Wiley, my dear."