Mr. Romfrey said: “One question to you, ma’am, and you shall not be detained. Did not that man Shrapnel grossly insult you on the day you called on him to see Captain Beauchamp about a couple of months before the Election?”
“Look at me when you speak, ma’am,” said Beauchamp.
Rosamund looked at him.
The whiteness of his face paralyzed her tongue. A dreadful levelling of his eyes penetrated and chilled her. Instead of thinking of her answer she thought of what could possibly have happened.
“Did he insult you at all, ma’am?” said Beauchamp.
Mr. Romfrey reminded him that he was not a cross-examining criminal barrister.
They waited for her to speak.
She hesitated, coloured, betrayed confusion; her senses telling her of a catastrophe, her conscience accusing her as the origin of it.
“Did Dr. Shrapnel, to your belief, intentionally hurt your feelings or your dignity?” said Beauchamp, and made the answer easier:
“Not intentionally, surely: not... I certainly do not accuse him.”