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?

Twisden. [Pouring some tea into the saucer] Without knowing, I can’t tell you.

     Winsor and Margaret exchange looks, and Twisden drinks from the
     saucer.  Margaret.  Tell him, Charles.

Winsor.  Well!  It rained that evening at Meldon.  The General happened to put his hand on Dancy’s shoulder, and it was damp.

     Twisden puts the saucer down and replaces the cup in it.  They both
     look intently at him.

Twisden.  I take it that General Canynge won’t say anything he’s not compelled to say.

Margaret.  No, of course; but, Mr Jacob, they might ask; they know it rained.  And he is such a George Washington.

Twisden. [Toying with a pair of tortoise-shell glasses] They didn’t ask either of you.  Still-no harm in your telling Dancy.

Winsor.  I’d rather you did it, Margaret.

Margaret.  I daresay. [She mechanically takes out her cigarette-case, catches the lift of Twisden’s eyebrows, and puts it back].

Winsor.  Well, we’ll go together.  I don’t want Mrs Dancy to hear.

Margaret.  Do tell me, Mr Jacob; is he going to win?

Twisden.  I think so, Margaret; I think so.

Margaret.  It’ll be too—­frightful if he doesn’t get a verdict, after all this.  But I don’t know what we shall do when it’s over.  I’ve been sitting in that Court all these three days, watching, and it’s made me feel there’s nothing we like better than seeing people skinned.  Well, bye-bye, bless you!

     Twisden rises and pats her hand.

Winsor.  Half a second, Margaret.  Wait for me.  She nods and goes out.  Mr Twisden, what do you really think?