Yet, for all his philosophising, he was surprised at the relief that his wild confession to Connie had afforded him. The burden that had seemed too heavy for him to bear had now grown magically light. He attributed the phenomenon to Connie Deering, to the witchery of her sweet sympathy and the comfort of her sisterly kiss. By the time he had finished dressing the acute pain of the past two days had vanished, and as he went down the stairs he accounted himself a happy man. In the drawing-room he met Norma, and chatted to her almost light-heartedly. He did not notice the constraint in her manner, her avoidance of his glance, the little pucker of troubled brows; nor was he aware of her sigh of relief when the door opened and the servant announced Mr. Theodore Weever, who with one or two other people were dining at the house. Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre followed on the American's heels, and soon the rest of the party had assembled. Jimmie had no opportunity for further talk with Norma, who studiously kept apart from him all the evening, and during dinner devoted herself to subacid conversation with Morland and to a reckless interchange of cynical banter with Weever. Jimmie, talking with picturesque fancy about his student days in the Rue Bonaparte to his neighbour, a frank fox-hunting and sport-loving young woman, never dreamed of the chaos of thoughts and feelings that whirled behind the proud face on the opposite side of the table; and Norma, when her mind now and then worked lucidly, wondered at the strength and sweetness of the man who could subdue such passion and laugh with a gaiety so honest and sincere. For herself, Theodore Weever, with his icy humour that crystallised her own irony into almost deadly wit, was her sole salvation during the interminable meal. Once Morland, listening with admiration, whispered in her ear: “I've never heard you in such good form.”