Every one moved.  Instinctively Dion leant forward to look at Mrs. Clarke.  He felt very much excited and nervous, almost as if his own fate were about to be decided.  As he looked he saw Mrs. Clarke draw herself up till she seemed taller than usual.  She had a pair of gloves in her lap, and she now began to pull one of these gloves on, slowly and carefully, as if she were thinking about what she was doing.  The jury filed in looking feverish, irritable and battered.  Three or four of them showed piteous and injured expressions.  Two others had the peculiar look of obstinate men who have been giving free rein to their vice, indulging in an orgy of what they call willpower.  Their faces were, at the same time, implacable and ridiculous, but they walked impressively.  The Judge was sent for.  Two or three minutes elapsed before he came in.  During those minutes there was no coughing and scarcely any moving.  The silence in the court was vital.  During it, Dion stared hard at the jury and strove to read the verdict in their faces.  Naturally he failed.  No message came from them to him.

The Judge came back to the bench, looking weary and harsh.

“Do you find that the respondent has been guilty or not guilty of misconduct with the co-respondent, Hadi Bey?” said the clerk of the court.

“We find that the respondent has not been guilty of misconduct with Hadi Bey.”

After a slight pause, speaking in a louder voice than before, the clerk of the court said: 

“Do you find that the respondent has been guilty or not guilty of misconduct with the co-respondent, Aristide Dumeny?”

“We find that the respondent has not been guilty of misconduct with Aristide Dumeny.”

Dion saw the Judge frown.

Slight applause broke out in the court, but it was fitful and uncertain and almost immediately died away.

Mrs. Chetwinde said in a low voice, almost as if to herself: 

“Cynthia has got what she wants—­again.”

Then, after the formalities, the crowd was in movement; the weary and excited people, their curiosity satisfied at last, began to melt away; the young barristers hurried out, eagerly discussing the rights and wrongs of the case; and Mrs. Clarke’s adherents made their way to her to offer her their congratulations.

Daventry was triumphant.  He shook his client’s hand, held it, shook it again, and could scarcely find words to express his excitement and delight.  Even Esme Darlington’s usual careful serenity was for the moment obscured by an emotion eminently human, as he spoke into Mrs. Clarke’s ear the following words of a ripe wisdom: 

“Cynthia, my dear, after this do take my advice and live as others live.  In a conventional world conventionality is the line of least resistance.  Don’t turn to the East unless the whole congregation does it.”

“I shall never forget your self-sacrifice in facing the crowd with me to-day, dear Esme,” was her answer.  “I know how much it cost you.”