(There is another awkward silence.)

GERALD (impatiently). Oh, what's the good of pretending this is a
formal call, Wentworth? Tell us about Bob; how's he taking it?

WENTWORTH. He doesn't say much. He had lunch in my rooms--you got
my message. He couldn't bear the thought of being recognized by
anyone, so I had something sent up.

GERALD (realizing what it must feel like). Poor old Bob!

WENTWORTH. Lady Farringdon, I can't possibly tell you what I feel
about this, but I should like to say that all of us who know Bob
know that he couldn't do anything dishonourable. Whatever the
result of the trial, we shall feel just the same towards him.

(LADY FARRINGDON is hardly able to acknowledge this, and SIR JAMES
goes across to comfort her.)

SIR JAMES (helplessly). There, there, Mary.

GERALD (seizing his opportunity, to WENTWORTH). What'll he get?

WENTWORTH (quietly). Three months--six months. One can't be certain.

GERALD (cheering up). Thank the Lord! I imagined awful things.

SIR JAMES (his ministrations over). After all, he hasn't been found
guilty yet; eh, Wentworth?