"Mr. Hunter," said the Old Man wearily, "I was influenced by personal
feeling as I should not have been, and my words were ill-chosen. My
apology, sir, if you can find it acceptable."
Very gently, Hunter said: "Why, of course, Cecil." And more gently
still: "I will ask no further questions of this witness."
She stood up, dizzy. Some passage of words between Cecil and the Judge.
Redirect examination--there would be none. She heard the Judge say after
an impatient throat-clearing that she was excused, and through a sudden
maddening colorless blur she saw or imagined that Cecil was achieving a
sort of smile for her. She stepped down carefully, concentrated on
preventing her fingers from reaching after a handkerchief or rising
toward her face. If she could keep her head turned away from the jury,
they might not see. Her seat was over there somewhere, beyond the bald
skull of the fattest reporter at the press tables. Cecil was still
smiling, more or less.
_But I lost. I lost._
_Callista, what have I done to you?_