Simon had vetoed the idea of a solicitor to defend him—it would only create more talk, and from what he could make out his case was defenceless. He would throw himself on the mercy of the court. The rest had concurred.
"Throw yourself on the mercy of the court! Have you ever lived in the country? Do you know what these old magistrates are like? Don't you know that the Wessex Chronicle will publish yards about it, to say nothing of the local rag? I've thought out the whole thing. I've wired for Dick Pugeot."
"You wired?" said Bobby.
"Last night. You remember I asked you for his address—and there he is."
The toot of a motor-horn came from outside.
Julia rose and left the room.
Bobby followed and stopped her in the passage.
"Julia," said he, "if you can get him out of this and save his name being in the papers, you'll be a brick. You are a brick, and I've been a—a——"
"I know," said Julia, "but you could not help yourself—nor can I. I'm not Cerise. Love is lunacy and the world's all wrong. Now go back and tell your uncle to say nothing in court and to pretend he's a fool. If Pugeot is the man you say he is, he'll save his name. Old Mr. Pettigrew has got to be camouflaged."