Winsor.  They’re looking for something lurid.

Margaret.  When I was in the bog, I thought they were looking for me. [Taking out her cigarette case] I suppose I mustn’t smoke, Mr Graviter?

Graviter.  Do!

Margaret.  Won’t Mr Jacob have a fit?

Graviter.  Yes, but not till you’ve gone.

Margaret.  Just a whiff. [She lights a cigarette].

Winsor. [Suddenly] It’s becoming a sort of Dreyfus case—­people taking sides quite outside the evidence.

Margaret.  There are more of the chosen in Court every day.  Mr Graviter, have you noticed the two on the jury?

Graviter. [With a smile] No; I can’t say—­

Margaret.  Oh! but quite distinctly.  Don’t you think they ought to have been challenged?

Graviter.  De Levis might have challenged the other ten, Miss Orme.

Margaret.  Dear me, now!  I never thought of that.

As she speaks, the door Left Forward is opened and old Mr Jacob Twisden comes in.  He is tallish and narrow, sixty-eight years old, grey, with narrow little whiskers curling round his narrow ears, and a narrow bow-ribbon curling round his collar.  He wears a long, narrow-tailed coat, and strapped trousers on his narrow legs.  His nose and face are narrow, shrewd, and kindly.  He has a way of narrowing his shrewd and kindly eyes.  His nose is seen to twitch and snig.

Twisden.  Ah!  How are you, Charles?  How do you do, my dear?

Margaret.  Dear Mr Jacob, I’m smoking.  Isn’t it disgusting?  But they don’t allow it in Court, you know.  Such a pity!  The Judge might have a hookah.  Oh! wouldn’t he look sweet—­the darling!

Twisden. [With a little, old-fashioned bow] It does not become everybody as it becomes you, Margaret.

Margaret.  Mr Jacob, how charming! [With a slight grimace she puts out her cigarette].

Graviter.  Man called Gilman waiting in there to see you specially.

Twisden.  Directly.  Turn up the light, would you, Graviter?

Graviter. [Turning up the light] Excuse me.

     He goes.

Winsor.  Look here, Mr Twisden—­

Twisden.  Sit down; sit down, my dear.

     And he himself sits behind the table, as a cup of tea is brought in
     to him by the young clerk, with two Marie biscuits in the saucer.

Will you have some, Margaret?

Margaret.  No, dear Mr Jacob.

Twisden.  Charles?

Winsor.  No, thanks.  The door is closed.

Twisden. [Dipping a biscuit in the tea] Now, then?

Winsor.  The General knows something which on the face of it looks rather queer.  Now that he’s going to be called, oughtn’t Dancy to be told of it, so that he may be ready with his explanation, in case it comes out?