“I hardly know. It may be something in his personality.”
“I believe he’s a beast,” said Dion.
“There!” exclaimed Daventry, wrinkling his forehead. “If the Judge thinks as you do it may just turn things against us.”
“Why did she make a friend of the fellow?”
“Because he’s chock-full of talent and knowledge, and she loves both. Dion, my boy, the mind can play the devil with us as well as the body. But I hope—I hope for the right verdict. Anyhow I’ve done well, and shall get other cases out of this. The odd thing is that Mrs. Clarke’s drained me dry of egoism. I care only to win for her. I couldn’t bear to see her go out of court with a ruined reputation. My nerves are all on edge. If Mrs. Clarke loses, how d’you think she’ll take it?”
“Standing up.”
“I expect you’re right. But I don’t believe I shall take it standing. Perhaps some women make us men feel for them more than they feel for themselves. Don’t look at me in court whatever you do.”
They had arrived at the Law Courts. He hurried away.
Dion’s place was again beside Mrs. Chetwinde, who looked unusually alive, and whose vagueness had been swept away by something—anxiety for her friend, perhaps, or the excitement of following day after day an unusually emotional cause celebre.
Now, as Sir John Addington stood up to continue his speech on Mrs. Clarke’s behalf, begun on the previous day, Mrs. Chetwinde leaned forward and fixed her eyes upon him, closing her fingers tightly on the fan she had brought with her.