“They interrupted me certainly. But I could n't have inflicted my society on Miss Hardacre all the afternoon.” “You would have liked to, wouldn't you? Jimmie dear,” she said with a change of tone, “I want to have a talk with you. I'm the oldest woman friend you have--” “And by far the sweetest and kindest and prettiest and fascinatingest.” She tapped his hand with her fingers. “Ssh! I'm serious, awfully serious. I've never been so serious in my life before. I've got a duty. I don't often have it, but when I do, it's a terrible matter.” “You had better go and have it extracted at once, Connie,” he laughed, determined to keep the talk in a frivolous channel. But the little lady was determined also. “Jimmie dear,” she said, holding up her forefinger, “I am afraid you are running into danger. I want to warn you. An old friend can do that, can't she?” “You can say anything you like to me, Connie. But I don't know what you mean.” He suspected her meaning, however, only too shrewdly, and his heart beat with apprehension. Had he been fool enough to betray his secret? “Are n't you getting just a little too fond of Norma, Jimmie?” “I could n't get too fond of her,” he said, “seeing that she is to be Morland's wife.” “That's just why you must n't. Come, Jimmie, have n't you fallen a bit in love with her?” “No,” he said with some heat. “Certainly not. How dare I?” Kindness and teasing were in her eyes. “My poor dear husband used to say I had the brain of a bird, but I may have the sharp eyes of a bird as well. Come--not just one little bit in love?” She had sought him with the best intentions in the world. She had long suspected; yesterday and to-day had given her certainty. She would put him on his guard, talk to him like an elder sister, pour forth upon him her vast wisdom in affairs of the heart, and finally persuade him-from his folly to more sensible courses. “He sha'n't come to grief over Norma if I can prevent it,” she had said to herself. And now, in spite of her altruistic resolve, she could not resist the pleasure of teasing him. She had done so all her life. Her method became less elder-sisterly than she had intended. But she was miles from realising that she touched bare nerves, and that the man was less a man than a living pain. “I tell you I'm not in love with her, Connie,” he said. “How could I dream of loving her? It would be damnable folly.” “Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie,” she said, enjoying his confusion, “what a miserably poor liar you make--and what a precious time you would have in the witness-box if you were a co-respondent! You can't deceive for nuts. You had better confess and have done with it.” Then seeing something of the anguish on his face, she bethought her of the serious aspect of her mission. “I could not bear you to break your heart over Norma, dear,” she said quite softly. “Don't madden me, Connie--you don't know what you are saying,” he muttered below his breath.