"Yes, sir. 21 Covent Street."
"You've kept that apartment?"
"Oh yes. Edith Nolan is taking care of it for me."
"Ought to be back there in a few days." How do you do it, Cecil, that casualness? You're hurting inside worse than I am. I feel fine. "You were attentive to all of Miss Nolan's testimony, weren't you?"
"Yes, I was, Mr. Warner."
"Before we go on to other things, is there anything in that testimony that you want to comment on, or add to, maybe?"
You told me, give them modesty. "Every one of them knows, Cal, that you're in their power. Think what that does to twelve human egos, and show them the respect they believe they deserve. In fact don't just show it: try to make yourself feel it." I will give them modesty, Cecil. "I think she overrated me as an artist, Mr. Warner. It's her honest view, I know, but I'm not that good." Who knows for sure? Maybe I am.
"Well, as you know, I set a very high value on your work myself." His quick relaxed smile was including the jury somehow. Wish I could do that. Or some of the jury: his glance had been directed, she thought, toward the crinkle-faced middle-aged lady. Name?—Butler, Miss Helen Butler. Callista ventured to meet the woman's eyes, did so, and was frightened to realize that for the instant's duration she was not certain what her own facial muscles were doing. What did I actually do?—make a face? Surely there had been a gleam like friendliness in Helen Butler; just as surely, the woman was now looking down at her hands, and away across the room, troubled but otherwise communicating nothing at all. "However, Callista, I was thinking chiefly of other things Miss Nolan said—for instance her belief that you might have been experiencing a serious depression, perhaps suicidal, last July and part of August. Was she right, Callista? Were you at that time, or any part of that time, actually contemplating doing away with yourself?"
"Yes, I—yes, I was."
"It was a definite intention, my dear?"