“Kindly confine yourself to answering my questions,” retorted Counsel harshly.  “I suggest that you were far more than imprudent.  I suggest that when you and Hadi Bey remained together in that pavilion on the Bosporus until midnight, until after midnight, you——­” and then followed another hideous accusation, which, gazing with her observant eyes at the brick-red shaven face of her accuser, Mrs. Clarke quietly denied.  She never showed temper.  Now and then she gave indications of a sort of cold disgust or faint surprise.  But there were no outraged airs of virtue.  A slight disdain was evidently more natural to the temperament of this woman than any fierceness of protestation.  Once when Counsel said, “I shall ask the jury to infer”—­something abominable, Mrs. Clarke tranquilly rejoined: 

“Whatever they infer it won’t alter the truth.”

Daventry moved his shoulders.  Dion was certain that he considered this remark ill-advised.  The jury, however, at whom Mrs. Clarke gazed in the short silence which followed, seemed, Dion thought, impressed by her firmness.  The luncheon interval prevented Counsel from saying anything further just then, and Mrs. Clarke stepped down from the box.

“Isn’t she wonderful?”

Dion heard this murmur, which did not seem to be addressed to any particular person.  It had come from Mrs. Chetwinde, who now got up and went to speak to Mrs. Clarke.  The whole court was in movement.  Dion went out to have a hasty lunch with Daventry.

“A pity she said that!” Daventry said in a low voice to Dion, hitching up his gown.  “Juries like to be deferred to.”

“I believe she impressed them by her independence.”

“Do you, though?  She’s marvelously intelligent.  Perhaps she knows more of men, even of jurymen, than I do.”

At lunch they discussed the case.  Daventry had had two or three chances given to him by Sir John Addington, and thought he had done quite well.

“Do you think Mrs. Clarke will win?” said Dion.

“I know she’s innocent, but I can’t tell.  She’s so infernally unconventional and a jury’s so infernally conventional that I can’t help being afraid.”

Dion thought of his Rosamund’s tranquil wisdom.

“I think Mrs. Clarke’s very clever,” he said.  “But I suppose she isn’t very wise.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, old Dion; she prefers life to wisdom.”

“Well, but——­” Dion Began.

But he stopped.  Now he knew Mrs. Clarke a little better, from her own evidence, he knew just what Daventry meant.  He looked upon the life of unwisdom, and he was able to feel its fascination.  There were scents in it that lured, and there were colors that tempted; in its night there was music; about it lay mystery, shadows, and silver beams of the moon shining between cypresses like black towers.  It gave out a call to which, perhaps, very few natures of men were wholly deaf.  The unwise life!  Almost for the first time Dion considered it with a deep curiosity.