“We were not discussing American and English institutions,” she interrupted, “but matters which interest me a little more. You don't believe in Morland as a man? I want to know, as they are supposed to say in your country. I disregard your hint, as you may perceive. I am also indelicate in pressing you to speak unfavourably of the man I'm engaged to. Of course, having made me an offer, you would regard it as caddish to say anything against him. But supposing I absolve you from anything of the kind by putting you on a peculiar plane of friendship?”
“Then I should say I was honoured above all mortals,” replied Weever, inscrutably, “and ask you to tell me as a friend what has become of the artist--the man who got shot--Padgate.”
The unexpected allusion was a shock. It brought back a hateful scene. It awoke a multitude of feelings. Its relevance was a startling puzzle. She strove by hardening her eyes not to betray herself.
“I've quite lost sight of him,” she answered in a matter of-fact tone. “His little adventure was n't a pleasant one.”
“I don't believe he had any little adventure at all,” said Weever, coolly.
“What do you mean?” Norma started, and the colour came into her face.
“That of all the idiots let loose in a cynical, unimaginative world, Padgate is the greatest I have yet struck. If I were a hundredth part such an idiot, I should be a better and a happier man. It's getting late. I'm afraid I must be moving.”
“I wish you would n't speak in riddles. Can't you tell me plainly what you mean?”
“No, I can't,” he said abruptly. “I have said quite enough. Good-night. And remember,” he added, shaking hands with her, “remember what I told you about myself.”
Only after he had gone did it flash upon her that she had not put to him the vital question--what had Padgate to do with his disbelief in Morland? As is the way with people pondering over conundrums, the ridiculously simple solution did not occur to her. She spent many days in profitless speculation. Weever prophesied that the marriage would not take place. When pressed for a reason, he brought in the name of Jimmie Padgate. Obviously the latter was to stand between Morland and herself. But in what capacity? As a lover? Had Weever rightly interpreted her insane act on the day of the garden-party, and assumed that she was still in love with the detested creature? The thought made her grow hot and cold from head to foot. Why was he an idiot? Because he did not take advantage of her public confession? or was it because he stood in Weever's eyes as a wronged and heroic man? This in the depths of her heart she had been yearning for months to believe. Connie Deering almost believed it. About the facts once so brutally plain, so vulgarly devoid of mystery, a mysterious cloud had gathered and was thickening with time. Reflection brought assurance that Theodore Weever regarded Jimmie as innocent; and if ever a man viewed human affairs in the dry, relentless light of reason, it was the inscrutable, bloodless American.