Storm himself found it difficult to preserve a calm and resigned demeanor to mask his thoughts which seethed with plans for the future. When haunting memories came unbidden, he thrust them fiercely aside, smothered them beneath the exultation of having escaped the lax hands of justice.
“Upon my soul, Norman, I don’t know what to make of you!” George complained one evening as they strolled up the Drive. “If you were a woman, I’d swear you were hysterical!”
Storm halted, glad of the semi-obscurity of the trees which tempered the searching street lights.
“You’re crazy!” he retorted.
“No, I’m not,” insisted George in serious refutation. “You’re down in the dumps one minute and all excited the next. You haven’t been speculating again?”
“Good Lord, no!” Storm breathed more freely. He must be careful! If old George thought his manner odd, how would it impress others? “I’m through with all that sort of thing.”
“Well, I didn’t know,” the other said lamely. “There’s a streak of recklessness in you, and when you get in one of those don’t-give-a-hang moods of yours you are apt to pull off some fool stunt——”
“My dear George!” Storm’s tone was pained. “I’ve been through enough, God knows, in the last few weeks to sober me down——”
“But it hasn’t!” George persevered. “You seem hardened, defiant, just in the frame of mind to do something desperate! I tell you I’ve been worried about you these days.”
Storm shrugged ironically.