The Silver Spoon

Chapter V.

THE DAY

On the day of the case Soames rose, in Green Street, with a sort of sick impatience. Why wasn’t it the day after!

Renewed interviews with very young Nicholas and Sir James Foskisson had confirmed the idea of defence by attack on modern morality. Foskisson was evidently going to put his heart into that—perhaps he’d suffered from it; and if he was anything like old Bobstay, who had just published his reminiscences at the age of eighty-two, that cat would lose her hair and give herself away. Yesterday afternoon Soames had taken an hour’s look at Mr. Justice Brane, and been very favourably impressed; the learned judge, though younger than himself—he had often briefed him in other times—looked old-fashioned enough now for anything.

Having cleaned his teeth, put in his plate, and brushed his hair, Soames went into the adjoining room and told A

Having roused her sufficiently to say: “You will have plenty of time to be fussy in that Court, Soames,” he went back and looked out of his window. The air smelled of Spring—aggravating! He bathed and shaved with care—didn’t want to go into the Box with a cut on his chin!—then went back to see that A

“I should wear black,” he said. A

“These people will bring their friends, I shouldn’t wonder; anything conspicuous—”

“Don’t be afraid; I shall not try to be younger than my daughter.”

Soames went out again. The French! Well, she had good taste in dress.

After breakfast he went off to Fleur’s. Winifred and Imogen would look after A

Spruce in his silk hat, he walked across the Green Park, co

“Quite a smell of Spring!” he said: “Shall we start?”

While a cab was being summoned, he tried to put her at ease.

“I had a look at Brane yesterday; he’s changed a good deal from when I used to know him. I was one of the first to give him briefs.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it, sir?” said Michael.

“How?”

“He’ll be afraid of being thought grateful.”

Flippant, as usual!

“Our judges,” he said, “are a good lot, take them all round.”

“I’m sure they are. Do you know if he ever reads, sir?”

“How d’you mean—reads?”

“Fiction. We don’t, in Parliament.”

“Nobody reads novels, except women,” said Soames. And he felt Fleur’s dress. “You’ll want a fur; that’s flimsy.”

While she was getting the fur, he said to Michael: “How did she sleep?”

“Better than I did, sir.”

“That’s a comfort, anyway. Here’s the cab. Keep away from that Scotchman.”

“I see him every day in the House, you know.”

“Ah!” said Soames; “I forgot. You make nothing of that sort of thing there, I believe.” And taking his daughter’s arm, he led her forth.

“I wonder if old Blythe will turn up,” he heard Michael say, when they passed the office of The Outpost. It was the first remark made in the cab, and, calling for no response, it was the last.

The Law Courts had their customary air, and people, in black and blue, were hurrying into them. “Beetletrap!” muttered Michael. Soames rejected the simile with his elbow—for him they were just familiar echoing space, concealed staircases, stuffy corridors, and the square enclosures of one voice at a time.

Too early, they went slowly up the stairs. Really, it was weak-minded! Here they had come—they and the other side—to get—what? He was amazed at himself for not having insisted on Fleur’s apologising. Time and again in the case of others, all this had appeared quite natural—in the case of his own daughter, it now seemed almost incredibly idiotic. He hurried her on, however, past lingering lawyers’ clerks, witnesses, what not. A few low words to an usher, and they were inside, and sitting down. Very young Nicholas was already in his place, and Soames so adjusted himself that there would only be the thickness of Sir James, when he materialised, between them. Turning to confer, he lived for a cosey moment in the past again, as might some retired old cricketer taking block once more. Beyond young Nicholas he quartered the assemblage with his glance. Yes, people had got wind of it! He knew they would—with that cat always in the public eye—quite a lot of furbelows up there at the back, and more coming. He reversed himself abruptly; the Jury were filing in-special, but a common-looking lot! Why were juries always common-looking? He had never been on one himself. He glanced at Fleur. There she sat, and what she was feeling he couldn’t tell. As for young Michael, his ears looked very pointed. And just then he caught sight of A