"That I might see if you were not, after all, as much a barbarian as I."
"Am I?"
"No. That was myself singing as well as you. You did not enjoy it altogether, did you?"
"In a way, yes. But—shall I be honest? I felt, too, as if, somehow, it wasn't quite right; so much—what shall I call it?"
"So much of old Adam and the Garden? Sit down here for a moment, will you?"
She trembled a little, and sat.
"I want to speak plainly and honestly to you," he said, looking earnestly at her. "You know my history—about my wife who died in Labrador, and all the rest?"
"Yes, they have told me."
"Well, I have nothing to hide, I think; nothing more that you ought to know: though I've been a scamp one way and another."
"'That I ought to know'?" she repeated.