He loosed her hands and looked at her steadily for a moment; he had more confidence in his power over her now.
"I think you should make me understand what you mean, dear. Do you accuse my sister of anything?"
She looked frightened.
"No, indeed I do not. I don't know what I am saying, Hubert. Tell me one thing. Do you think we should ever do wrong—or what seems to be wrong—for the sake of other people's happiness? Clergymen and good people say we should not; but I do not know."
"Enid, you have not been consulting that parson at Beechfield about it?"
"Not exactly. At least"—the ingenuous face changed a little—"we talked on that subject, because he knew that I was in trouble, but I did not tell him anything. He said one should always tell the truth at any cost."
"And theoretically one should do so," said Hubert, trying to soothe her, yet feeling himself a corrupter of her innocent candor of mind as he went on; "but practically it would not be always wise or right. When you marry, Enid"—he drew her towards him—"you can confess to your husband, and he will absolve you."
"Perhaps that is what would be best," she answered softly.
"To no man but your husband, Enid."
She drew a quick little sigh.