Beryl nodded. "I had a letter--" "So did I!" said Christina triumphantly, and drew a blue envelope from her blouse. "Written by the prison chaplain and dictated by Ambrose. Such a typical letter--all about the kindness of everybody and a minute description of the cell intended, I think, to show how comfortable he is." Christina had had a similar letter. "Sir John Maxton is defending him," said Beryl. "That is what I have come to tell you. He is a very great advocate." They looked at one another, and each had the same thought. "The best lawyer and the kindest judge and the most sympathetic jury would not save Ambrose," said Christina, and they looked for a long time into one another's eyes and neither saw fear. Beryl did not stay long. They ran into a blind alley of conversation after that: a time of long quietness. Jan Steppe was waiting in the drawing-room when she returned. The maid need not have told her: she sensed his presence before the door was opened. She had seen very little of Steppe, remembering that she had engaged herself to marry him. She did not let herself think much about it: she had not been accurate when she told Christina that she had no imagination. It was simply that she did not allow herself the exercise of her gift. The same idea had occurred to Jan Steppe--he had seen little of her. He was a great believer in clearing up things as he went along. An unpleasant, but profitable, trait of his. "Been waiting for you an hour: you might leave word how long you'll be out, huh, Beryl?" A foretaste, she thought, of the married man, but she was not offended. That was just how she expected Steppe would talk: probably he would swear at her when he knew her better. Nevertheless-- "I go and come as I please," she said without heat. "You must be prepared to put me under lock and key if you expect to find me in any given place, at any given time. And then I should divorce you for cruelty." He did not often show signs of amusement. He smiled now. "So that's your plan. Sit down by me, Beryl, I want a little talk." She obeyed: he put his arm about her, and looking down, she saw his big hairy hand gripping her waist. "Why are you shaking, Beryl? You're not frightened of me, huh?" he asked, bending his swarthy face to hers. "I--I don't know." Her teeth were chattering. She was frightened. In a second all her philosophy had failed and her courage had gone out like a blown flame. Every reserve of will was concentrated now in an effort to prevent herself screaming. Training, education, culture, all that civilization stood for, crashed at the touch of him. She was woman, primitive and unreasoning: woman in contact with savage mastery. "God! What's the matter, huh? You expect to be kissed, don't you? I'm going to be your husband, huh? Expect to be kissed then, don't you? What is the matter with you?" She got up from the sofa, her legs sagging beneath her.