It had not occurred to her that this busy place was a court room. It had no stately panelled walls like those that had been painted in the background of the portrait of Grandy's father. Nor did she understand when she was at last ushered into the Justice's presence that he was the man she had been waiting to see.
He did not wear a white curly wig and he did not wear a black satin gown the way Grandy's father had. Nor were there any scrolls of vellum with fat beribboned seals in this Judge's hands. Instead, alert slender fingers riffled their way rapidly through a mass of papers that a clerk put before him. Felicia watched the fingers until the close cropped head was lifted and keen gray eyes glanced straight through hers.
The abrupt phrase with which he had intended to dismiss her died. He stared at her curiously. He noted the traveling bag at her feet, the absurd old coat and bonnet, the dark circles under her beseeching eyes—
"She looked," as he explained afterward, "like a daguerreotype—old and youthful all at once, faded yet shining—most extraordinary little person—"
"You are the Felicia Day mentioned here?" he asked gravely tapping the papers.
Felicia tried to smile. She managed it so far as her eyes were concerned but her lips were too tired. She nodded.
"And have you any other lawyer than Mr. Burrel—the lawyer who has disappeared?"
She nodded again. She spoke to him for the first time, her low contralto, her clear enunciation, her perfect poise of manner, startled him even more than the childlike simplicity—almost absurdity—of her words.
"There's the Portia Person in Temple Bar."
"A woman lawyer?" he was very patient with her.