“I hope so. A leading part, perhaps, if you are the clever and conscientious woman I take you to be.” “What part has my cousin Morland played?” she asked. “I must leave you the very simple task of guessing,” said Weever; and he took advantage of her consternation to converse with his left-hand neighbour. “I have painted a peculiarly successful fan, dear Mrs. Deering,” said Colonel Pawley, in his purring voice. “A wedding-present for our dear Miss Hardacre. I have never been so much pleased with anything before. I should like you to see it. When may I come and show it you?” “The wedding is fixed for two o'clock on Wednesday,” said Connie, answering like a woman in a dream. The bright room, the crowd of diners, the music, the voice of the old man by her side, all faded from her senses, eclipsed by the ghastly light that dawned upon her. Only one meaning could be attached to Weever's insinuations. A touch on the arm brought her back to her surroundings with a start. It was Colonel Pawley. “I hope there is nothing--” he began, in a tone of great concern. “No, nothing. Really nothing. Do forgive me,” she interrupted in confusion. “You were telling me something. Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry.” “It was about the fan,” said Colonel Pawley, sadly. “A fan?” “Yes, for dear Miss Hardacre--a wedding-present.” She listened to a repetition of the previous remarks and to a description of the painting, and this time replied coherently. She would be delighted to see both the fan and himself to-morrow morning. The kind old man launched into a prothalamion. The happy couple were a splendidly matched pair--Norma the perfect type of aristocratic English beauty; Morland a representative specimen of the British gentleman, the safeguard of the empire, a man, a thorough good fellow, incapable of dishonour, a landed proprietor. He had sketched out a little wedding-song which he would like to present with the fan. Might he show that, too, to Mrs. Deering? It was a dreadful dinner. On each side the distressing topic hemmed her in. In vain she tried to make her old friend talk of travel or gastronomy or the comforts of his club; perverse fate brought him always back to Norma's wedding. She was forced to listen, for to Weever she dared not address a remark. She longed for escape, for solitude wherein to envisage her dismay. No suspicion of Morland's complicity in the scandal had crossed her mind. Even now it seemed preposterous for a man of honour to have so acted towards his dearest and most loyal friend, to say nothing of the unhappy things that had gone before. Suddenly, towards the end of dinner, she revolted. She turned to Weever. “I don't believe a word of it.” “Of what, dear lady?” “Of what you have told me about Morland and Jimmie Padgate.” “I have told you nothing--absolutely nothing,” he replied in his expressionless way. “Please remember that. I don't go about libelling my acquaintances.” “I shall go and ask Morland straight,” she said with spirit.