Foskisson down, Bullfry up!

“I call the plaintiff, my lord.”

Soames uncrossed his legs.

Chapter VI.

IN THE BOX

Marjorie Ferrar stepped into the Box, not exactly nervous, and only just ‘made-up.’ The papers would record a black costume with chinchilla fur and a black hat. She kissed the air in front of the book, took a deep breath, and turned to Mr. Bullfry.

For the last five days she had resented more and more the way this case had taken charge of her. She had initiated it, and it had completely deprived her of initiative. She had, in fact, made the old discovery, that when the machinery of quarrel is once put in motion, much more than pressure of the starting button is required to stop its revolutions. She was feeling that it would serve Alec and the lawyers right if all went wrong.

The voice of Mr. Bullfry, carefully adjusted, soothed her. His questions were familiar, and with each answer her confidence increased, her voice sounded clear and pleasant in her ears. And she stood at ease, making her figure as boyish as she could. Her performance, she felt, was interesting to the judge, the jury, and all those people up there, whom she could dimly see. If only ‘that little snob’ had not been seated, expressionless, between her and her Counsel! When at length Mr. Bullfry sat down and Sir James Foskisson got up, she almost succumbed to the longing to powder her nose. Clasping the Box, she resisted it, and while he turned his papers, and hitched his gown, the first tremor of the morning passed down her spine. At least he might look at her when he spoke!

“Have you ever been party to an action before, Miss Ferrar?”

“No.”

“You quite understand, don’t you, that you are on your oath?”

“Quite.”

“You have told my friend that you had no animus against Mrs. Mont. Look at this marked paragraph in The Evening Sun of October 3rd. Did you write that?”

Marjorie Ferrar felt exactly as if she had stepped out of a conservatory into an East wind. Did they know everything, then?

“Yes; I wrote it.”

“It ends thus: ‘The enterprising little lady is losing no chance of building up her salon on the curiosity which ever surrounds any buccaneering in politics.’ Is the reference to Mrs. Mont?”

“Yes.”

“Not very nice, is it—of a friend?”

“I don’t see any harm in it.”

“The sort of thing, in fact, you’d like written about yourself?”

“The sort of thing I should expect if I were doing the same thing.”

“That’s not quite an answer, but let me put it like this: The sort of thing your father would like to read about you, is it?”

“My father would never read that column.”

“Then it surprises you to hear that Mrs. Mont’s father did? Do you write many of these cheery little paragraphs about your friends?”

“Not many.”

“Every now and then, eh? And do they remain your friends?”

“It’s not easy in Society to tell who’s a friend and who isn’t.”

“I quite agree, Miss Ferrar. You have admitted making one or two critical—that was your word, I think—remarks concerning Mrs. Mont, in her own house. Do you go to many houses and talk disparagingly of your hostess?”

“No; and in any case I don’t expect to be eavesdropped.”

“I see; so long as you’re not found out, it’s all right, eh? Now, on this first Wednesday in October last, at Mrs. Mont’s, in speaking to this gentleman, Mr. Philip—er—Quinsey, did you use the word ‘snob’ of your hostess?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Be careful. You heard the evidence of Mrs. Ppynrryn and Mrs. Maltese. Mrs. Maltese said, you remember, that Mr. Forsyte—that is Mrs. Mont’s father—said to you on that occasion: ‘You called my daughter a snob in her own house, madam—be so kind as to withdraw; you are a traitress.’ Is that a correct version?”

“Probably.”

“Do you suggest that he invented the word ‘snob’?”

“I suggest he was mistaken.”

“Not a nice word, is it—‘snob’? Was there any other reason why he should call you a traitress?”

“My remarks weren’t meant for his ears. I don’t remember exactly what I said.”

“Well, we shall have Mr. Forsyte in the box to refresh your memory as to exactly what you said. But I put it to you that you called her a snob, not once but twice, during that little conversation?”

“I’ve told you I don’t remember; he shouldn’t have listened.”

“Very well! So you feel quite happy about having written that paragraph and said nasty things of Mrs. Mont behind her back in her own drawing-room?”

Marjorie Ferrar grasped the Box till the blood tingled in her palms. His voice was maddening.

“Yet it seems, Miss Ferrar, that you object to others saying nasty things about you in return. Who advised you to bring this action?”

“My father first; and then my fiance.”

“Sir Alexander MacGown. Does he move in the same circles as you?”

“No; he moves in Parliamentary circles.”

“Exactly; and he wouldn’t know, would he, the canons of conduct that rule in your circle?”

“There are no circles so definite as that.”

“Always willing to learn, Miss Ferrar. But tell me, do you know what Sir Alexander’s Parliamentary friends think about conduct and morality?”

“I can guess. I don’t suppose there’s much difference.”

“Are you suggesting, Miss Ferrar, that responsible public men take the same light-hearted view of conduct and morals as you?”

“Aren’t you rather assuming, Sir James, that her view IS light-hearted?”

“As to conduct, my lord, I submit that her answers have shown the very light-hearted view she takes of the obligations incurred by the acceptance of hospitality, for instance. I’m coming to morals now.”

“I think you’d better, before drawing your conclusions. What have public men to do with it?”

“I’m suggesting, my lord, that this lady is making a great to-do about words which a public man, or any ordinary citizen, would have a perfect right to resent, but which she, with her views, has no right whatever to resent.”

“You must prove her views then. Go on!”

Marjorie Ferrar, relaxed for a moment, gathered herself again. Her views!

“Tell me, Miss Ferrar—we all know now the meaning of the word ‘stuffy’—are public men ‘stuffier’ than you?”

“They may say they are.”

“You think them hypocrites?”

“I don’t think anything at all about them.”

“Though you’re going to marry one? You are complaining of the words: ‘She hasn’t a moral about her.’ Have you read this novel ‘Can-thar’?” He was holding up a book.

“I think so.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’ve skimmed it.”

“Taken off the cream, eh? Read it sufficiently to form an opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Would you agree with the view of it expressed in this letter to a journal? ‘The book breaks through the British “stuffiness,” which condemns any frank work of art—and a good thing too!’ It is a good thing?”

“Yes. I hate Grundyism.”

“‘It is undoubtedly Literature.’ The word is written with a large L. Should you say it was?”

“Literature—yes. Not great literature, perhaps.”

“But it ought to be published?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You know that it is not published in England?”

“Yes.”

“But it ought to be?”

“It isn’t everybody’s sort of book, of course.”

“Don’t evade the question, please. In your opinion ought this novel ‘Canthar’ to be published in England?… Take your time, Miss Ferrar.”

The brute lost nothing! Just because she had hesitated a moment trying to see where he was leading her.

“Yes, I think literature should be free.”

“You wouldn’t sympathise with its suppression, if it were published?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t approve of the suppression of any book on the ground of mere morals?”

“I can’t tell you unless I see the book. People aren’t bound to read books, you know.”