"Why, just this way; I've known the youth for years, and the other
day if it doesn't turn out that he's been married ever so long! And when I taxed him with needless secrecy and mistrust of an old friend, what does the young humbug say? 'The fact is, sir, I hadn't the cheek to tell you.' Well, I was like that. I hadn't the cheek."
"At any rate, you have the grace to call him a young humbug. I'm glad you're repentant, Dr. Conrad."
"Come—I say, now—Sally! That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. You called me 'Dr. Conrad.'"
"We-ell, I don't see anything in that. Of course, it's quite a different thing—you and me."
"Very well, then. I shall say Miss Sally. Miss Sally!"
Here was Sally's opportunity, clear enough. She had never had a chance till now of bringing back the mysterious young lady of the jetty-interview into court, and examining her. She felt quite sure of herself and her powers of conducting the case—and she was mistaken. She knew nothing of the traps and pitfalls that were gaping for her. Her opening statement went easily though; it was all prepared.
"Don't you see, Dr. Conrad dear, the cases are quite different? When you're married, your wife will call me Sally, of course. But ... well, if I had a husband, you know, he would call you Dr. Vereker. Sure to!" Sally felt satisfied with the sound of her voice. But the doctor said never a word, and his face was grave. She would have to go on, unassisted, and she had invented nothing to say, so far. So a wavering crept in—nothing in itself at first, apart from her consciousness of it. "Besides, though, of course she would call me Sally, she mightn't quite—not altogether, you know—I mean, she might think it...." But ambushes revealed themselves in every hedge, ready to break out if she ended this sentence. Dr. Conrad made completion unnecessary.