"Do you believe that?"
"No, I don't. But I want to hear you say it isn't so."
"Well—it isn't so. Are you satisfied?"
"I'm frightfully jealous of you, Fred."
"What a waste of time!"
"I've got something to confess—something I'm ashamed of."
"Don't confess," cried he, laughing but showing that he meant it. "Just—don't be wicked again That's much better than confession."
"But I must confess," insisted she. "I had evil thoughts evil suspicions about you. I've had them all day—until you came. As soon as I saw you I felt bowed into the dust. A man like you, doing anything so vulgar as I suspected you of—oh, dearest, I'm so ashamed!"
He put his arms round her and drew her to his shoulder. And the scene of mimicry in his office flashed into his mind, and the blood burned in his cheeks. But he had no such access of insanity as to entertain the idea of confession.
"It was that typewriter girl," continued Josephine. She drew away again and once more searched his face. "You told me she was homely."