In the silence that followed, Norma, who had come to summon Connie to tea (the Spencer-Temples having called on their drive past the gates merely to deliver a message), and hearing the voice behind the hedge had been compelled against her will to listen--Norma, deadly white, shaken to the roots of her being, crept across the tennis lawn and fled in swaying darkness to her room. Chapter XIII--THE OPTIMIST AT LARGE CONNIE DEERING walked back to the house with a silent and still tremulous Jimmie. She had slid her hand through his arm, and now and then gave it an affectionate pat. Within the limitations of her light, gay nature she was a sympathetic and loyal woman, and she had loved Jimmie for many years with the unquestioning fondness that one has for a beloved and satisfying domestic animal. She had recovered from the fright his frantic demonstration had caused her, and her easy temperament had shaken off the little chill of solemnity that had accompanied her vow of secrecy. But she pitied him with all her kind heart, and in herself felt agreeably sentimental. They strolled slowly into the hall, and paused for a moment before parting. “When you come to think of it seriously, you won't consider I have made too impossible a fool of myself?” he asked with an apologetic smile. “I promise,” she said affectionately. Then she laughed. Not only was Jimmie's smile contagious, but Connie Deering could not face the pleasant world for more than an hour without laughter. “I have always said you were a dear, Jimmie, and you are. I almost wish I could kiss you.” Jimmie looked around. They were quite unperceived. “I do quite,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Now we are really brother and sister,” she said with a flush. “You are not going to be too unhappy, are you?” “I? Oh no, not I,” he replied heartily. He repeated this asseveration to himself while dressing for dinner. Why indeed should he be unhappy? Had he not looked a few hours before at God's earth and found that it was good? Besides, to add to the common stock of the world's unhappiness were a crime. “Yes, a crime,” he said aloud, with a vigorous pull at his white tie. Then he perceived that it was hopelessly mangled, and wished for Aline, who usually conducted that part of the ceremony of his toilette. “It will have to do,” he said cheerfully, as he turned away from the glass.