On what proved to be the evening before her delivery, and was the third day of Harry’s case, she was lying, as she had lain some days, on the Chesterfield in the drawing-room, loosely robed. Harry had thought he could get back to tea, and got back. He came to her with tenderest concern, and with immense tenderness at once was talking to her. But she could see! The apparent deepening of all the lines of his dear, striking face, as of one who for hours has been under enormous concentration; the slight huskiness of his voice, from hard service; the repressed excitation in his air; the frequent glint behind the soft regard of his eyes, as of one that has been hunting high and hunting well--she could see; she could tell where was his spirit! Her own went lovingly to meet it where it was. “Ah, never mind all that, Harry. Tell me all that’s been happening to you. How is it going, Harry?” Dear Harry! Most mannish man! She laughed (and he laughed too, knowing perfectly well why she laughed) to note the delight, like a dog from chain, with which he bounded off into his mind’s absorption. He sat upright. He grabbed for a cigarette and inhaled it tremendously. “It’s going like cutting butter with a hot knife. I started cross-examining today. I gave him three and a half hours of it, straight off the ice, and I’m not through with him yet. Not half. If he had as many legs as a centipede he’d still not have one left to stand on when I’m through with him. I doubt he’ll have his marrow bones to crawl out on, the way he’s crumpling up. Even old Hounslow at his worst can’t possibly misdirect the jury, the way I’ve gummed their noses on the trail. I’ll tell you--” He told her. She had put out both her hands and taken one of his. “It’s splendid, Harry. It’s too splendid. How delighted I am, and proud, proud! No one would have imagined it at the beginning. What a triumph it will be for you!” His grasp squeezed hers in fond response. “Why, it won’t do me any harm,” he agreed. His tone was light. He released his hand and took up a cup of tea, and his tone went deep. “Mind you, I’m glad about it,” he said, and stirred the spoon thoughtfully within the cup. He had come into the room declaring he was dying for some tea, but he had touched none, and he now replaced the cup untasted on the table and she saw on his face the deep “inward” look that she knew (and loved) for the sign of intense concentration of his mind. “Yes, glad,” he spoke; his voice, as was its habit when he was “inward,” sounding as though it was the involuntary, and not the intentional, utterance of his thoughts. “I’ve gone all out over this case. I saw, the minute they briefed me, that one tiny flaw, his neglect to take up that option--you remember, I told you--right down at the bottom of the whole tangle, and I went plumb down for it and hung on to it and fought it up like, like a diver coming up from fathoms down.”