Daventry was triumphant. He shook his client’s hand, held it, shook it again, and could scarcely find words to express his excitement and delight. Even Esme Darlington’s usual careful serenity was for the moment obscured by an emotion eminently human, as he spoke into Mrs. Clarke’s ear the following words of a ripe wisdom:
“Cynthia, my dear, after this do take my advice and live as others live. In a conventional world conventionality is the line of least resistance. Don’t turn to the East unless the whole congregation does it.”
“I shall never forget your self-sacrifice in facing the crowd with me to-day, dear Esme,” was her answer. “I know how much it cost you.”
“Oh, as to that, for an old friend—h’m, ha!”
His voice failed in his beard. He drew forth a beautiful Indian handkerchief—a gift from his devoted friend the Viceroy of India—and passed it over a face which looked unusually old.
Mrs. Chetwinde said:
“I expected you to win, Cynthia. It was stupid of the jury to be so slow in arriving at the inevitable verdict. But stupid people are as lethargic as silly ones are swift. How shall we get to the carriage? We can’t go out by the public exit. I hear the crowd is quite enormous, and won’t move. We must try a side door, if there is one.”
Then Dion held Mrs. Clarke’s hand, and looked down at her haggard but still self-possessed face. It astonished him to find that she preserved her earnestly observant expression.
“I’m very glad,” was all he found to say.
“Thank you,” she replied, in a voice perhaps slightly more husky than usual. “I mean to stay on in London for some time. I’ve got lots of things to settle”—she paused—“before I go back to Constantinople.”