‘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 cóunted 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?’