In the morning of his case, which was second in the list, Soames was
again obliged to start without seeing Irene, and it was just as well,
for he had not as yet made up his mind what attitude to adopt towards
her.
He had been requested to be in court by half-past ten, to provide
against the event of the first action (a breach of promise) collapsing,
which however it did not, both sides showing a courage that afforded
Waterbuck, Q.C., an opportunity for improving his already great
reputation in this class of case. He was opposed by Ram, the other
celebrated breach of promise man. It was a battle of giants.
The court delivered judgment just before the luncheon interval. The jury
left the box for good, and Soames went out to get something to eat. He
met James standing at the little luncheon-bar, like a pelican in the
wilderness of the galleries, bent over a sandwich with a glass of sherry
before him. The spacious emptiness of the great central hall, over which
father and son brooded as they stood together, was marred now and then
for a fleeting moment by barristers in wig and gown hurriedly bolting
across, by an occasional old lady or rusty-coated man, looking up in a
frightened way, and by two persons, bolder than their generation, seated
in an embrasure arguing. The sound of their voices arose, together with
a scent as of neglected wells, which, mingling with the odour of the
galleries, combined to form the savour, like nothing but the emanation
of a refined cheese, so indissolubly connected with the administration
of British Justice.
It was not long before James addressed his son.
"When's your case coming on? I suppose it'll be on directly. I shouldn't
wonder if this Bosinney'd say anything; I should think he'd have to.
He'll go bankrupt if it goes against him." He took a large bite at his
sandwich and a mouthful of sherry. "Your mother," he said, "wants you
and Irene to come and dine to-night."
A chill smile played round Soames' lips; he looked back at his father.
Anyone who had seen the look, cold and furtive, thus interchanged, might
have been pardoned for not appreciating the real understanding between
them. James finished his sherry at a draught.
"How much?" he asked.
On returning to the court Soames took at once his rightful seat on the
front bench beside his solicitor. He ascertained where his father was
seated with a glance so sidelong as to commit nobody.
James, sitting back with his hands clasped over the handle of his
umbrella, was brooding on the end of the bench immediately behind
counsel, whence he could get away at once when the case was over. He
considered Bosinney's conduct in every way outrageous, but he did not
wish to run up against him, feeling that the meeting would be awkward.