“No.”
“It was your pet name for him?”
“Not at all. Everybody calls him that.”
“And he called you Clare, or darling, I suppose?”
“One or the other.”
Dinny saw the Judge’s eyes lifted to the unseen.
“Young people nowadays call each other darling on very little provocation, Mr. Brough.”
“I am aware of that, my Lord… Did you call HIM darling?”
“I may have, but I don’t think so.”
“You saw your husband alone on that occasion?”
“Yes.”
“How did you receive him?”
“Coldly.”
“Having just parted from the co-respondent?”
“That had nothing to do with it.”
“Did your husband ask you to go back to him?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
“And that had nothing to do with the co-respondent?”
“No.”
“Do you seriously tell the jury, Lady Corven, that your relations with the co-respondent, or if you like it better, your feelings for the co-respondent, played no part in your refusal to go back to your husband?”
“None.”
“I’ll put it at your own valuation: You had spent three weeks in the close company of this young man. You had allowed him to kiss you, and felt better for it. You had just parted from him. You knew of his feelings for you. And you tell the jury that he counted for nothing in the equation?”
Clare bowed her head.
“Answer, please.”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Not very human, was it?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“I mean, Lady Corven, that it’s going to be a little difficult for the jury to believe you.”
“I can’t help what they believe, I can only speak the truth.”
“Very well! When did you next see the co-respondent?”
“On the following evening, and the evening after that he came to the unfurnished rooms I was going into and helped me to distemper the walls.”
“Oh! A little unusual, wasn’t it?”
“Perhaps. I had no money to spare, and he had done his own bungalow in Ceylon.”
“I see. Just a friendly office on his part. And during the hours he spent with you there no passages took place between you?”
“No passages have ever taken place between us.”
“At what time did he leave?”
“We left together both evenings about nine o’clock and went and had some food.”
“And after that?”
“I went back to my aunt’s house.”
“Nowhere in between?”
“Nowhere.”
“Very well! You saw your husband again before he was compelled to go back to Ceylon?”
“Yes, twice.”
“Where was the first time?”
“At my rooms. I had got into them by then.”
“Did you tell him that the co-respondent had helped you distemper the walls?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I? I told my husband nothing, except that I wasn’t going back to him. I regarded my life with him as finished.”
“Did he on that occasion again ask you to go back to him?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
“With contumely?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Insultingly?”
“No. Simply.”
“Had your husband given you any reason to suppose that he wished to divorce you?”
“No. But I don’t know what was in his mind.”
“And, apparently, you gave him no chance to know what was in yours?”
“As little as possible.”
“A stormy meeting?”
Dinny held her breath. The flush had died out of Clare’s cheeks; her face looked pale and peaked.
“No; disturbed and unhappy. I did not want to see him.”
“You heard your counsel say that from the time of your leaving him in Ceylon, your husband in his wounded pride had conceived the idea of divorcing you the moment he got the chance? Was that your impression?”
“I had and have no impression. It is possible. I don’t pretend to know the workings of his mind.”
“Though you lived with him for nearly eighteen months?”
“Yes.”
“But, anyway, you again refused definitely to go back to him?”
“I have said so.”
“Did you believe he meant it when he asked you to go back?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Did you see him again before he went?”
“Yes, for a minute or two, but not alone.”
“Who was present?”
“My father.”
“Did he ask you again to go back to him on that occasion?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
“And after that you had a message from your husband before he left London, asking you once more to change your mind and accompany him?”
“Yes.”
“And you did not?”
“No.”
“Now let me take you to the date of January the—er—third”—Dinny breathed again—“that is the day which you spent, from five in the afternoon till nearly midnight, with the co-respondent. You admit doing that?”
“Yes.”
“No passages between you?”
“Only one. He hadn’t seen me for nearly three weeks, and he kissed my cheek when he first came in to have tea.”
“Oh! the cheek again? Only the cheek?”
“Yes. I am sorry.”
“So I am sure was he.”
“Possibly.”
“You first spent half an hour alone, after this separation, having—tea?”
“Yes.”
“Your rooms, I think, are in an old mews—a room below, a staircase, a room above—where you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“And a bathroom? Besides the tea I suppose you had a chat?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the ground-floor room.”
“And then did you walk together, chatting, to the Temple, and afterwards to a film and to dinner at a restaurant, during which you chatted, I suppose, and then took a cab back to your rooms, chatting?”
“Quite correct.”
“And then you thought that having been with him nearly six hours, you had still a good deal to say and it was necessary that he should come in, and he came?”
“Yes.”
“That would be past eleven, wouldn’t it?”
“Just past, I think.”
“How long did he stay on that occasion?”
“About half an hour.”
“No passages?”
“None.”
“Just a drink and a cigarette or two, and a little more chat?”
“Precisely.”
“What had you to talk about for so many hours with this young man who was privileged to kiss your cheek?”
“What has anyone to talk about at any time?”
“I am asking you that question.”
“We talked about everything and nothing.”
“A little more explicit, please.”
“Horses, films, my people, his people, theatres—I really don’t remember.”
“Carefully barring the subject of love?”
“Yes.”
“Strictly platonic from beginning to end?”
“I should say so.”
“Come, Lady Corven, do you mean to tell us that this young man, who on your own admission was in love with you, and who hadn’t seen you for nearly three weeks, never once during all those hours yielded to his feelings?”
“I think he told me he loved me once or twice; but he always stuck splendidly to his promise.”
“What promise?”
“Not to make love to me. To love a person is not a crime, it is only a misfortune.”
“You speak feelingly—from your own experience?”
Clare did not answer.
“Do you seriously tell us that you have not been and are not in love with this young man?”
“I am very fond of him, but not in your sense.”
In Dinny flamed up compassion for young Croom listening to all this. Her cheeks went hot, and she fixed her blue eyes on the Judge. He had just finished taking down Clare’s answer; and suddenly she saw him yawn. It was an old man’s yawn, and lasted so long that it seemed never going to end. It changed her mood, and filled her with a sort of pity. He, too, had to listen day after day to long-drawn-out attempts to hurt people, and make them stultify themselves.
“You have heard the enquiry agent’s evidence that there was a light in the upstairs room after you returned with the co-respondent from the restaurant. What do you say to that?”
“There would be. We sat there.”
“Why there, and not downstairs?”
“Because it’s much warmer and more comfortable.”
“That is your bedroom?”
“No, it’s a sitting-room. I have no bedroom. I just sleep on the sofa.”