"I wish to God we had won the case," Shiel observed.
"So do I," Miss Templeton replied, "and so did Gladys—she regards her position now as absolutely hopeless!"
"Tell her not to lose heart," Shiel answered hurriedly. "If I can't find any other means, I'll—" but Miss Templeton rang off, and he spoke to the wind.
Full of wrath against Lilian Rosenberg, he went round to see her, and met her, just as she was entering her house.
"I've come to see you for the last time," he announced. "After the way you behaved in Court, we can no longer be friends."
"I don't understand," she said in rather a faltering voice. "What have I done?"
"Only perjured yourself," Shiel retorted. "The tale you told the judge was very different to the tale you told me, therefore it is impossible for us to continue our friendship. I could never have anything to do with a woman whose word I can't rely upon—whose character I scorn, whom I despise—and—" he was going to add, "detest," but checked himself, and unable to trust himself in her presence any longer, he gave her a glance of the utmost contempt, and wheeling round, walked quickly away.
As in a dream, Lilian Rosenberg went upstairs to her room, and throwing herself on the bed, buried her face in the pillow and indulged in a fit of crying. It was not the thought of losing Shiel that was so painful to her—she might have grown reconciled to that—it was the thought of losing his esteem. Most people would agree with her—would assure her she had done the right thing in looking after number one. "What, after all, is perjury?" she argued. "Nearly every one in this world perjure themselves at one time or another—certainly all women."
But it was not the opinion of the majority she cared about—it was the respect of the one; the respect she had wilfully and spitefully sacrificed.
Was it too late to recover it?