“What have they to weigh? They heard Mr. Phipps, didn’t they?”
“They did indeed. And what they may well spend the next twenty-four hours debating is whether they consider Mr. Phipps a long-suffering martyr or a well-paid liar.”
“Oh, go away—go away! I can’t bear you!”
“You can’t bear me?” inquired the reporter incredulously. “Me?”
“No—yes—never mind. Go away; you say perfectly horrible things.”
“Not as horrible as you do,” said the reporter. “Can’t bear me, indeed! I didn’t say that I thought that Phipps was a liar. As a matter of fact, I thought he was as nice a guy as I ever saw in my life, poor devil, even if he did read the Idylls of the King aloud. . . . Can’t bear me!”
“I can’t bear anything,” said the red-headed girl despairingly. “Go away!”
After he had gone, she had a sudden overwhelming impulse to dash after him and beg him to take her with him, anywhere he went—everywhere—always. She was still contemplating the impulse with horrified amazement when the girl from the Louisville paper who sat three seats down from her leaned forward. She was a nice, cynical, sensible-looking girl, but for the moment she was a little pale.
“There’s not a possibility that they could return a verdict of guilty, is there?” she inquired in a carefully detached voice.
“Oh, juries!” said the red-headed girl drearily. “They can do anything. They’re just plain, average, everyday, walking-around people, and average, everyday people can do anything in the world. That’s why we have murders and murder trials.”