“Divorce,” said Egidia, “would really become too attractive if it were run in connection with a restaurant or a manicure establishment.” “And then,” Mrs. Elles went on, “when I do see Mr. Lawler, I cannot help thinking that he is laughing at me. He treats me like a child---- ” “Instead of an erring woman!” said Egidia. “Well, you should not wear your hats so terribly on one side. The dignity of crime---- ” “Yes, I must really get something plainer!” Mrs. Elles returned, taking her literally. “I nearly cried to-day, and it did not go with my hat at all.” “Why did you cry?” “Because--I can stand a good deal--but when he repeated all the awful things that woman was prepared to swear against me, I nearly gave way. The whole case, they say, stands on her evidence, and it is false, outrageously false. She always hated me, she cared for Mr. Rivers herself. It was notorious that she did.” Egidia sneered a little, almost in spite of herself. “Who next?” she said. “She was very nearly a lady,” Mrs. Elles said apologetically, “and he was kind to her, but he never flirted with her--of that I am convinced. But if the jury believe her, Mortimer will get his case, to a certainty!” “Did they tell you the details--of what she was going to say?” asked Egidia, shyly and awkwardly. Mrs. Elles told her, at some length, but without much hesitation. “Oh, she can’t realize!” thought Egidia, brooding. “She can have no imagination!” Her own conjured up so vividly the horrors of the scene in court--the scene that must come now, in spite of Rivers’ pathetically confident assertions. “She can’t love him, or know or care one little bit what he suffers--or is it that she thinks that she will get him herself in the end? And so she will, for he is a man of honour. Ah, but she shall not, if I can prevent it. It will be the best plot I ever invented, if I can pull it through, and then I suppose I must take the veil, to show the purity of my intentions!... God forgive me, if he loves her! But he does not!... He is an artist before all. He said so himself, this very day. And no man loves disgrace, and such disgrace would kill love, if ever it existed!” “What are you thinking of?” asked the other presently. “You look like the tragic muse, or Althea, before she put the burning brand back into the fire again. You have a very strong face, do you know? It is a pity Mr. Rivers isn’t a figure painter, then he could paint you.” “I wish--somehow--you would not talk of Mr. Rivers.” “Why not? I am always thinking of him.” “That you are not.”