After a private talk with Aline she drove straight to Devonshire Place, and on the way dabbed her eyes with the inconsiderable bit of chiffon called a handkerchief which she carried in her gold chain purse. She saw Norma alone for a moment before lunch, and told her of her visit. “I don't care what he has done,” she declared desperately. “I am not going to let it make a difference any longer. He's the same dear creature I have known all my life, and I don't believe he has done anything at all. If there's a sinner in that horrible business, it is n't Jimmie!” Norma looked out of the window at the bleak March day. “That is what Theodore Weever said,” she answered tonelessly. “Then why don't you give Jimmie the benefit of the doubt?” “It is better that I should n't.” “Why, dear?” “You are a sweet little soul, Connie,” said Norma, her eyes still fixed on the grey sky. “But you may do more harm than good. I am better as I am. I have benumbed myself into a decent state of insensibility and I don't want to feel anything ever again as long as I live.” The door opened, and Mrs. Hardacre appeared on the threshold. Connie bent forward and whispered quickly into Norma's ear: “One would think you were afraid to believe in Jimmie.” She swung round, flushed, femininely excited at having seized the unfair moment for dealing a stab. “I hope I _have_ made her feel,” she thought, as she fluttered forward to greet Mrs. Hardacre. She succeeded perhaps beyond her hope. A sharp glance showed her Norma still staring out of window, but staring now with an odd look of fear and pain. Her kind heart repented. “Forgive me if I hurt you,” she said on their way downstairs to lunch. “What does it matter?” Norma answered by way of pardon. But the shrewd thrust mattered exceedingly. After Connie had gone, the wound ached, and Norma found that her boast of having benumbed herself was a vain word. In the night she lay awake, frightened at the reaction that was taking place. Theodore Weever had shaken her more than she had realised. Connie Deering proclaimed the same faith. She felt that she too would have to accept it--against argument, against reason, against fact. She would have to accept it wholly, implicitly; and she dreaded the act of faith. Her marriage with Morland was fixed for that day week, and she was agonisingly aware that she loved another man with all her heart. The next day she received a hurried note from Connie Deering: _“Do come in for half an hour for tea on Sunday. I have a beautiful wedding-present to show you which I hope you'll like, as great pains have been spent over it. And I want to have a last little chat with you.”_