"The public will frequent this class of case," whispered his dragoman. "How different when you were here in 1910!"
The Angel collected himself: "Tell me," he murmured, "which of the grey-haired ones is the judge?"
"He in the bag-wig, sir," returned his dragoman; "and that little lot is the jury," he added, indicating twelve gentlemen seated in two rows.
"What is their private life?" asked the Angel.
"No better than it should be, perhaps," responded his dragoman facetiously; "but no one can tell that from their words and manner, as you will presently see. These are special ones," he added, "and pay income tax, so that their judgment in matters of morality is of considerable value."
"They have wise faces," said the Angel. "Which is the prosecutor?"
"No, no!" his dragoman answered, vividly: "This is a civil case. That is the plaintiff with a little mourning about her eyes and a touch of red about her lips, in the black hat with the aigrette, the pearls, and the fashionably sober clothes."
"I see her," said the Angel: "an attractive woman. Will she win?"
"We do not call it winning, sir; for this, as you must know, is a sad matter, and implies the breaking-up of a home. She will most unwillingly receive a decree, at least, I think so," he added; "though whether it will stand the scrutiny of the King's Proctor we may wonder a little, from her appearance."
"King's Proctor?" said the Angel. "What is that?"