The smile she gave more than reassured him. “I won’t,” she murmured, “although I began to fear you were one.” His voice was low as hers as he rejoined, “I never shall be now that I have known you.” She laughed now. “If it were not too serious for a joke I should tell you to wait till our case is decided.” “Countess,” he protested, “it has long been decided in my mind, unassailably decided.” “Ah,” she said, “that was your duty. You could scarcely do less than believe in your client.” “I might,” he rejoined, “have done much less.” “And what convinced you?” she asked. “My client herself,” he answered. Then again, just as their hearts seemed to come near to one another, they drew away again. Perhaps to her the time appeared not ripe, while on his part, a chilling shadow seemed to intervene between him and his love; the figure of Gastineau, the brain, whose mouthpiece he was. His relations with Gastineau formed, indeed, a consideration which had begun to exercise his mind very disagreeably, and which he felt must in honour make him pause before declaring his love for Alexia. She would take him as he took her, judging by fair outward appearance, by the affinity of their beings, by--in short--by that reciprocal personal attraction which produces love. On her side, doubtless, the foundation for regard, the regard which he hoped and believed was ripening into love, had been admiration. He had been in her service skilful, courageous, chivalrous; he seemed to have sprung to her side when sorely pressed, as her champion, almost heaven-sent, and, apart from the professional relation in the matter, her gratitude and admiration were unbounded. No doubt the personal element had much to do with this. Chance might have given for her defence a dry, crabbed old lawyer, a Macvee, dusty, aggressive and uncompromising, who would yet have served her well, at the same time regarding her merely as a client rather more interesting than usual. But Geoffrey Herriard was very different. He was comparatively a young man; he had, if not a handsome, at least an interesting clear-cut face; he was an attractive personality, a rising politician, an already risen member of the Bar. His career was assured, and his history carried with it that interest which successful cleverness can always claim. What wonder, then, that Alexia, almost a woman of the world, at least a _femme faite_, though she might be, should grow more and more attracted by her counsel who had quickly become her friend as well as her brother’s? And yet, as Herriard kept telling himself all through the days and nights, he was a lie; a living, pleading, arguing, ingratiating lie. His form, his voice were his own, and that was all. The brain he took credit for was another man’s. The telling speeches, the masterly conduct of the case, the shrewd arguments, even the smart retorts by which he scored, were no more his than are Shakespeare’s lines the actor’s who utters them.