William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

lame the argument was, in spite of its probable truth. Except that he was convinced Melville was holding something back so important it amounted to a lie. There was something elusive about the man, and he had no idea what it was. He had taken his case on impulse, and he regretted it.
    Sacheverall dismissed the idea and returned to his seat, with his back half towards Rathbone.
    “Sir Oliver?” the judge enquired.
    There was nothing more to say. He would only make it even worse.
    “No, thank you, my lord. Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.”
    Sacheverall had nothing more to add. He was wise enough not to press the issue. He was winning without having to try.
    It was already late for luncheon. The court adjourned.
    Rathbone walked out with Melville. The crowd stared at them. There were several ugly words said quite clearly enough to hear. Melville kept his eyes straight ahead, his face down, his cheeks flushed. He must have been as aware of them as Rathbone was.
    “I didn’t know about the wedding until it was all planned!” he said desperately. “I heard, of course, bits and pieces. I didn’t even realize it was supposed to be me!” They were passing through the entrance hall of the courthouse. Rathbone held open the doors.
    “I know that sounds ridiculous,” Melville went on. “But I didn’t listen. My mind was on my own ideas: arches andlintels, colonnades, rows of windows, depths of foundations, front elevations, angles of roofs. Women are often talking about fashion and who is going to marry whom. Half the time it is only gossip and speculation.”
    “How can you have been so stupid?” Rathbone snapped, losing his temper at the idiocy of it, all the unnecessary embarrassment.
    “Because I suppose I wanted to,” Melville answered with astounding honesty. “I didn’t want it to be true, so I ignored it. If you care about one thing enough, you can exclude other things.” Now they were outside in the sharp wind and sunlight. His eyes were the blue-green of seawater. “I care about buildings, about arches, and pillars and stone, and the way light falls, about color and strength and simplicity. I care about being able to design things that will long outlast me, or anyone I know, things that generations after us will look at and feel joy.”
    He pushed his hands into his pockets hard and stared at Rathbone as they walked along the street towards the busy restaurant where they could purchase luncheon. They brushed past people barely noticing them.
    “Have you ever been to Athens, Sir Oliver?” he asked. “Have you seen the Parthenon in the sunlight?” His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “It is pure genius. All the measurements are slightly off the true, to give an optical illusion of perfect grace to the observer … and it succeeds brilliantly.” He flung his arms out, almost hitting a middle-aged man with a gray mustache. He apologized absently and continued to Rathbone. “Can you imagine the minds of the men who built that? And here we are two thousand years later struck silent with awe at its beauty.”
    Unconsciously he was walking more rapidly than before, and Rathbone had to increase his pace to keep up with him.
    “And Tuscany!” he went on, his face glowing. “All Italy, really—Venice, Pisa, Sienna; but the Tuscan Renaissance architecture has a sublime simplicity to it. Classical without being grandiose. A superb sense of color and proportion. Onecould look at it forever. The arcades … the domes! Have you seen the round windows? It all seems part of nature, sprung from it, not vying against … there is a mellowness. Nothing jars. That is the secret. A unity with the land, never alien, never offending the vision or the mind. And they know how to use terraces, and trees, especially cypress. They lead the eye perfectly from one point to the next—”
    “The restaurant,” Rathbone interrupted.
    “What?”
    “The restaurant,” the barrister repeated. “We must have luncheon before we return.”
    “Oh. Yes … I suppose so.” Obviously it had slipped Melville’s mind. It was an irrelevance.
    The first witness of the afternoon was Zillah Lambert herself. She took the oath with a grave, trembling voice and looked up to face Sacheverall. She was very pale, but so far composed. She wore cream trimmed with palest green and it complemented her perfectly. Her glorious hair was piled richly on her head rather than tied severely back, and she looked vulnerable and very young. Yet