Later, Connie Deering, who had changed her dress, tapped at the door and was bidden to enter. A quantity of powder vainly strove to hide the traces of recent tears on her pretty face. She was a swollen-featured, piteous little butterfly.
“How is he?” asked Norma.
“Better, much better. They have taken out the bullet. There is no danger, and he has recovered consciousness. I almost wish he hadn't. Oh, Norma dear—”
She broke down and sat on the bed and sobbed. Norma came up and laid her hand on her shoulder.
“Surely you don't believe this ghastly story?”
The fair head nodded above the handkerchief. A voice came from-below it.
“I must—it's horrible—Jimmie, of all men! I thought his life was so sweet and clean—almost like a good woman's—I can't understand it. If he is as bad as this, what must other men be like? I feel as if I shall never be able to look a man in the face again.”
“But why should you take it for granted that he has done this?” asked Norma, tonelessly.
Mrs. Deering raised her face and looked at her friend in blue-eyed dismay.
“I did n't take it for granted. He told me so himself. Otherwise do you think I should have believed it?”