As the minutes passed Christopher watched her in breathless but confident expectation. The crisis had come and she was passing it—she had passed it safely. They talked on fondly—five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and still there were no untoward developments, no sign of anything evil or irrational. Penelope was her own adorable self. The spell was broken. Nothing had happened.
“You see, it's all right?” he laughed. “You needn't be afraid any more.”
“Wait!” she looked at the clock. “Ten minutes yet!”
He longed to tell her that they had already passed the fatal moment, passed it by twenty minutes, but he restrained his ardor.
“Chris, my love, if we are really to be married tomorrow—how wonderful that seems!—I must have no secrets from you. What my mother said is true—a woman must cleanse her soul. I want to tell you something—for my sake, not for yours—then we will never refer to it again.”
“But, Penelope—”
“It isn't about that steamboat?”
“It is, darling. I must tell it. Fix the pillows behind me. There! Sit close to me—that's right. Now listen! This dream is a repetition of what happened on the boat. It would have been much better if I had told you all about it long ago.”
“Why?”