“Have you just been turning things over in your mind until you’ve got the whole business of sex on your nerves,” said Perriman bluntly, “or have you been getting into mischief? I’m not going to ask you to incriminate anybody else, if that’s the case, so don’t worry about that.”
“It isn’t anything like that,” said Cecil almost inaudibly.
“It isn’t? Well, so far, so good. Now supposing you tell me what it is, then?”
“When I was a little chap, I—I wasn’t taught to speak the truth.”
“That’s a pity—but you certainly came here with the intention of speaking the truth to me this evening, so I’m sure you’re going to carry out your resolution,” said the clergyman tranquilly.
“When I was at my preparatory school, I thought I’d outgrown it, like any other kid.”
“Outgrown what, Aviolet?”
“Exaggerating.”
Mr. Perriman stared at Cecil. “Tell me what you mean, my dear boy,” he said finally.
Little by little, he patiently extracted a more or less definite self-accusation from Cecil, of which almost every admission was qualified by exculpatory clauses.