ng. One woman, she thought, looked
compassionate. Within, they crossed the marble pavement, the Honourable
Dave handed her into an elevator, and when it stopped she followed him
as in a dream to an oak-panelled door marked with a legend she did not
read. Within was an office, with leather chairs, a large oak desk, a
spittoon, and portraits of grave legal gentlemen on the wall.

"This is Judge Whitman's office," explained the Honourable Dave. "He'll
let you stay here until the case is called."

"Is he the judge--before whom--the case is to be tried?" asked Honora.

"He surely is," answered the Honourable Dave. "Whitman's a good friend
of mine. In fact, I may say, without exaggeration, I had something to do
with his election. Now you mustn't get flustered," he added. "It isn't
anything like as bad as goin' to the dentist. It don't amount to shucks,
as we used to say in Missouri."

With these cheerful words of encouragement he slipped out of a side
door into what was evidently the court room, for Honora heard a droning.
After a long interval he reappeared and beckoned her with a crooked
finger. She arose and followed him into the court room.

All was bustle and confusion there, and her counsel whispered that they
were breaking up for the day. The judge was stretching himself;
several men who must have been lawyers, and with whom Mr. Beckwith was
exchanging amenities behind the railing, were arranging their books and
papers; some of the people were leaving, and others talking in groups
about the room. The Honourable Dave whispered to the judge, a tall,
lank, cadaverous gentleman with iron-grey hair, who nodded. Honora was
led forward. The Honourable Dave, standing very close to the judge and
some distance from her, read in a low voice something that she could not
catch--supposedly the petition. It was all quite as vague to Honora
as the trial of the Jack of Hearts; the buzzing of the groups still
continued around the court room, and nobody appeared in the least
interested. This was a comfort, though it robbed the ceremony of all
vestige of reality. It seemed incredible that the majestic and awful
Institution of the ages could be dissolved with no smoke or fire, with
such infinite indifference, and so much spitting. What was the use of
all the pomp and circumstance and ceremony to tie the knot if it could
be cut in the routine of a day's business?

The solemn fact that she was being put under oath meant nothing to
her.