Neither Elinor nor Hugh deigned to notice Howard, who sat looking at them through partly closed eyes. Notwithstanding the fact that he was under the strain he was, he could scarcely suppress a smile as he looked at Elinor.
“Just like her,” he muttered, “to dress the part.”
Hammond drew a pad in front of him and dipped his pen in the ink. “Now then, Elinor!” He looked up.
The pale, small figure in black met his eye again. It was too much for him. He fairly exploded:
“What in—well—what in thunderation do you mean by dressing like that? Do you want to play upon the sympathy of a jury and ruin your brother?”
“Why, Mr. Hammond!” Elinor’s handkerchief went straight to her eyes. “How can you talk—to me—like that? Can’t you see—I’m heart-broken?”
Hugh had her in his arms instantly.
“There, darling, don’t cry,” he said soothingly. He turned savagely to Hammond. “I won’t have you talking to her like that! She’s suffering enough—hasn’t she just told you she’s heart-broken?”
“Well, then, let her be sensibly heart-broken!” Hammond brought his fist down upon the desk. “Can you imagine the light it is going to throw upon the case when this slip of a girl appears upon the scene in the garb of an inconsolable widow?”
Elinor removed the handkerchief from her eyes—eyes that were hard behind the glistening of newly shed tears. Her voice was steely as she spoke, the toss of her head defiant.