As Dion got up he felt the heat as if it were heat from a furnace. His face and his body were burning.
“Come and speak to Cynthia, and take us to tea somewhere—can you?” said Mrs. Chetwinde.
“Of course, with pleasure.”
“Your Rosamund——?”
Her eyes were on him for a moment.
“She won’t expect me at any particular time.”
“Mr. Daventry can come too.”
Dion never forgot their difficult exit from the court. It made him feel ashamed for humanity, for the crowd which frantically pressed to stare at a woman because perhaps she had done things which were considered by all right-minded people to be disgusting. Mrs. Clarke and her little party of friends had to be helped away by the police. When at length they were driving away towards Claridge’s Hotel, Dion was able once more to meet the eyes of his companions, and again he was amazed at the self-possession of Mrs. Clarke. Really she seemed as composed, as completely mistress of herself, as when he had first seen her standing near the statue of Echo in the drawing-room of Mrs. Chetwinde.
“You haven’t been in court before to-day, have you?” she said to Dion.
“No.”