Chapter XXII—CATASTROPHE
CONNIE DEERING was dining that Sunday evening with some friends at the Carlton, an engagement which had caused her to decline an invitation to the Hardacres'. The prospect, however, for once did not appeal to her pleasure-loving soul. She sighed as she stepped into her brougham, and wished as she drove along that she were sitting at home in the tea-gown and tranquillity harmonious with a subdued frame of mind. Problems worried her. What had passed between Norma and Jimmie? Ordinary delicacy had forbidden her questioning, and Jimmie had admitted her no further into his confidence. In that she was disappointed. When a sentimental woman asks for a kiss, she expects something more. She was also half ashamed of herself for asking him to kiss her. A waspish little voice within proclaimed that it was not so much for Jimmie's sake as for her own; that her lifelong fondness for Jimmie had unconsciously slid on to the rails that lead to absurdity. She drew her satin cloak tightly around her as if to suffocate the imp, and returned to her speculation. Something had happened—of that there was no doubt—something serious, agitating. It could be read on both their faces. Had she, who alone knew the hearts of each, done right in bringing them together? What had been her object? Even if a marriage between them had not been too ludicrous for contemplation, it would not have been fair towards her cousin Morland to encourage this intrigue. She vowed she had been a little fool to meddle with such gunpowdery matters. And yet she had acted in all innocence for Jimmie's sake. It was right for Norma to be friends with him again. It was monstrous he should suffer. If he could not marry the woman he loved, at least he could have the happiness of knowing himself no longer a blackened wretch in her eyes. But then, Norma had taken it into her head to love him too. Had she done right? Her thoughts flew round in a vicious circle of irritatingly small circumference, occasionally flying off on the tangent of the solicited kiss.
The first person she met in the vestibule of the Carlton was Theodore Weever. They exchanged greetings, discovered they belonged to the same party. She had come across him frequently of late in the houses that Norma and herself had as common ground. In a general way she liked him; since Norma had told her of his view of the scandal, he had risen high in her estimation; but to-night he seemed to be a link in the drama that perplexed her, and she shrank from him, as from something uncanny. He sat next her at table. His first words were of Jimmie.
“I was buying pictures yesterday from a friend of yours—Padgate.”
In her pleasure Connie forgot her nervousness.
“Why, he never told me.”
“He could scarcely have had time unless he telephoned or telegraphed.”
“He was at my house this afternoon,” she explained.
He carefully peppered his oysters, then turned his imperturbable face towards her.
“So was Miss Hardacre.”