A moment later she was all inconsequence and jest. On parting he took both her white-gloved little hands.
“You can't realise the joy it has been to me to see you, Connie,” he said. “It has been like a ray of sunlight through prison bars.”
After a private talk with Aline she drove straight to Devonshire Place, and on the way dabbed her eyes with the inconsiderable bit of chiffon called a handkerchief which she carried in her gold chain purse. She saw Norma alone for a moment before lunch, and told her of her visit.
“I don't care what he has done,” she declared desperately. “I am not going to let it make a difference any longer. He's the same dear creature I have known all my life, and I don't believe he has done anything at all. If there's a sinner in that horrible business, it is n't Jimmie!”
Norma looked out of the window at the bleak March day.
“That is what Theodore Weever said,” she answered tonelessly.
“Then why don't you give Jimmie the benefit of the doubt?”
“It is better that I should n't.”
“Why, dear?”
“You are a sweet little soul, Connie,” said Norma, her eyes still fixed on the grey sky. “But you may do more harm than good. I am better as I am. I have benumbed myself into a decent state of insensibility and I don't want to feel anything ever again as long as I live.”