"Can't go with me!”
"No."
For some seconds Stannard did not reply. Lowering his dark head, he put the pencil with great care in the middle of the plan. Martin sensed the hidden quirk at the corner of his mouth. Vividly he remembered Stannard at Ruth's flat on Thursday night: the chuckle, the too-fixed smile, the glitter of the black eyes, Stannard's too frequent glances at Ruth. Will you forgive me, Mr. Stannard, for saying that you are a little pompous?’ Martin remembered that too.
Then Stannard straightened up. 'To tell you the truth, young man, I am not altogether surprised."
"Look here! Will you just let me explain?"
"Of course." Stannard inclined his head courteously.
"On Thursday night I didn't know something I know now. There was a certain girl—" here he saw Stannard's eyes narrow—"I'd lost for three years. On Friday I found her. There's what you might call family opposition, and everything is upset. I promised to take her driving tonight"
And now Martin recognized the other's posture. In imagination he saw Stannard, in wig and gown, standing behind a desk on counsel's bench: his head a little inclined to one side, listening in cross-examination with that air of polite incredulity and amusement which is all the more effective because it keeps a perfectly straight face.
"Indeed," Stannard observed. "You promised to take her driving." The inflection he put into the words was masterly.
"Yes!"