S (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?

WENTWORTH. Certainly, Sir James. With a jury there's always hope.

SIR JAMES. What do you think yourself?

WENTWORTH. I think he has been very foolish; whether the Law will call
it criminally foolish I should hardly like to say. I only wish I had
known about it before. He must have suspected something--didn't he say
anything to anybody?

SIR JAMES. He told Gerald, apparently. For some reason he preferred to
keep his father in the dark.

GERALD (eagerly). That was the day you came down to us, Wentworth; five
days before he was arrested. I asked him to tell you, but he wouldn't.

WENTWORTH. Oh, it was too late then. Marcus had absconded by that time.

GERALD (earnestly). Nobody could have helped him then, could they?

WENTWORTH. Oh no.

GERALD (to himself). Thank God.

SIR JAMES (to LADY FARRINGDON as he looks at his watch). Well, dear, I
really think you ought to try to eat something.

LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't, James. (Getting up) But you must have
_your_ lunch.

SIR JAMES. Well, one oughtn't to neglect one's health, of course. But
I insist on your having a glass of claret anyhow, Mary. What about you,
Gerald?

GERALD. I'm all right. I'll wait for Bob. I've had something.

LADY FARRINGDON. You won't let Bob go without seeing us?

GERALD. Of course not, dear.

(He goes with them to the door and sees them out.)

GERALD (coming back to WENTWORTH). Three months. By Jove! that's
nothing.

WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives him
plenty of time to brood about it.

GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly?

WENTWORTH. The world.

GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do it on
my head.

WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart.

GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right way,
it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years.

WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months.

GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three months or
six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and there's the poor
devil in the dock p