"To be sure," said the Spawer, "your acting was n't altogether good. If, for instance, you had n't mistaken your cue when I came out through the window, I should never have known you were there at all."
"Should n't you?" asked the girl, with the momentary blank face for an opportunity gorgeously lost.
"Indeed, I should n't."
"All the same ... I 'm glad you did," she said, with sudden reversion of humility.
"Ah. That 's better," the Spawer assented. "So am I. It shows a proper appreciation of Providence."
"Because," the girl proceeded to explain, "when you 're found out you feel somehow as though you 'd paid for your wrong-doing, don't you? And, at least, it saves you from being a hypocrite, does n't it?"
"Oh, yes," said the Spawer, with infectious piety. "Capital thing for that. Splendid thing for that."
"Father Mostyn..." she began. "You know Father Mostyn, don't you?"
The name brought an uncomfortable sense of visitorial obligations unfulfilled to the Spawer's mind.
"Slightly," he said, the diminutive seeming to offer indemnity for his neglect.