“He doesn’t deny it any more. That was the worst of all, almost, before you came in, when he kept on saying it was all a mistake, and he hadn’t done it, and wouldn’t I believe him. It was like when he was a little boy, and used to cheat at games, and look up at me with his great soft eyes, with his little hand actually on the counter that he’d moved, and say, ‘But I didn’t, Mummie. I didn’t touch it, truly.’”
She put her handkerchief to her mouth, stifling a sob.
“He can’t help it, you know. It isn’t the same for him as it is for other people—I know it isn’t. I can’t explain it, but I know he’s different, somehow. Jim was bad, and then I suppose marrying someone like me, who wasn’t the same class—Oh, stop that cab quickly!”
She had already signed to the driver.
“Listen, Rose. I want to ask you something. I don’t know, but I imagine, that this solicitor fellow will want to put up a defence of instability of mind. I don’t see what other line he can take. The theft is proved up to the hilt, and the boy will have to plead guilty. If they want medical testimony, are you prepared to hear me take up the line that Cecil is more or less mentally unbalanced?”
“But he’s not mad!”
“I know he isn’t. But the alternative, in the eyes of a jury, will be that he’s a criminal. That would mean—imprisonment.”
“Ces in prison!”
“I know. It would break him, utterly. We’ve got to keep him out of that, somehow.”
“Yes,” she said tonelessly.