“So was mine. Babies are always said to be wonderful, and never are. And we love ours chiefly because they aren’t. I hate things with wings growing out of their shoulders. My boy’s a very naughty boy.”
They talked about the baby, and then about Mrs. Clarke’s son of ten; and then Canon Wilton came up, shook hands warmly with Dion, and was introduced by Mrs. Chetwinde to Mrs. Clarke.
Presently, from the other side of the room where he was standing with Esme Darlington, Dion saw them in conversation; saw Mrs. Clarke’s eyes fixed on the Canon’s almost fiercely sincere face.
“It’s going to be an abominable case,” murmured Mr. Darlington in Dion’s ear. “We must all stand round her.”
“I can’t imagine how any one could think such a woman guilty,” said Dion.
“It has all come about through her unconventionality.” He pulled his beard and lifted his ragged eyebrows. “It really is much wiser for innocent people, such as Cynthia, to keep a tight hold on the conventions. They have their uses. They have their place in the scheme. But she never could see it, and look at the result.”
“But then don’t you think she’ll win?”
“No one can tell.”
“In any case, she tells me she’s going back to live at Constantinople.”
“Madness! Sheer madness!” said Mr. Darlington, almost piteously. “I shall beg her not to.”