“When was that?” asked Morland, with a touch of sarcasm. “I certainly don't remember.”
“It was the last night we had any talk together—in the billiard-room. The night before—before the garden-party.” He turned away with an involuntary exclamation of anger. He remembered now, tragic events having put the incident out of his mind. He was caught in a trap.
“I did n't think you meant it,” he said, hurrying to the base excuse. “Women sometimes consider it their duty to say such things—to act a little comedy, out of kindness. Some fellows expect it. I thought it would be more decent to let you see that I did n't.”
There was a short silence. Norma stood in the centre of the room, biting her lip, her head moving slightly from side to side; she was seeking to formulate her thoughts in conventional terms. Her cheek grew a shade paler.
“Listen,” she said at length. “I am anything bad you like to call me. But I'm not a woman who cajoles men. And I'm not a liar. I'm far too cynical to lie. Truth is much more deadly. I hate lying. That's the main reason why I broke with a man I cared for more than for any other man I have ever met—because he lied. You know whom I mean.”
He faced her with a conscious effort. Even at this moment of strain and anger, Norma was struck again with the lurking air of ignobility on his face; but she only remembered it afterwards. He brazened it out.
“Jimmie Padgate, I suppose.”
“I can't forgive him for lying.”
“I don't see how he lied. He faced the music, at any rate, like a man,” said Morland, compelled by a remnant of common decency to defend Jimmie.
“All his pose beforehand was a lie—unless the disclosures afterwards were lies—”