CHAPTER XXIII—AND GLORY SAID
Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious. Peter’s sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing. He drew up his big chair to the fire—his soldier’s chair the children called it. He put out his knee invitingly. “Sit down, little son. What’s the trouble?”
“I’d rather stand, father. You’ll never want to speak to me again when I’ve told you.”
Barrington observed Peter’s pallor and the way his hands kept folding and unfolding.
“It can’t be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be.”
“But it is, father. I’m a thief and a liar, and I expect I’ll be arrested before morning.”
Peter’s tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was certainly something the matter.
“Well, Peter, I’ll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole truth when it’s easy to lie.—Queer things have been happening lately. It’s about those Christmas presents, now, isn’t it?”