“As a statesman I can't say that I do,” replied Weever, with the puckering of the faint lines round his eyes that passed for a smile. “That is what astonishes me in your English political life—the little one need talk and the little one need do. In America the politician is the orator. He must move in an atmosphere of words half a mile thick. Wherever he goes he must scream himself hoarse. But here—”
Norma touched his arm with her fan.
“We were not discussing American and English institutions,” she interrupted, “but matters which interest me a little more. You don't believe in Morland as a man? I want to know, as they are supposed to say in your country. I disregard your hint, as you may perceive. I am also indelicate in pressing you to speak unfavourably of the man I'm engaged to. Of course, having made me an offer, you would regard it as caddish to say anything against him. But supposing I absolve you from anything of the kind by putting you on a peculiar plane of friendship?”
“Then I should say I was honoured above all mortals,” replied Weever, inscrutably, “and ask you to tell me as a friend what has become of the artist—the man who got shot—Padgate.”
The unexpected allusion was a shock. It brought back a hateful scene. It awoke a multitude of feelings. Its relevance was a startling puzzle. She strove by hardening her eyes not to betray herself.
“I've quite lost sight of him,” she answered in a matter of-fact tone. “His little adventure was n't a pleasant one.”
“I don't believe he had any little adventure at all,” said Weever, coolly.
“What do you mean?” Norma started, and the colour came into her face.
“That of all the idiots let loose in a cynical, unimaginative world, Padgate is the greatest I have yet struck. If I were a hundredth part such an idiot, I should be a better and a happier man. It's getting late. I'm afraid I must be moving.”
He rose, and Norma rose with him.