"I'll do that," he said solemnly.
That afternoon Wilmot Allen drove Barbara down to Meadowbrook. He had borrowed a sixty-horse-power runabout for the occasion, but displayed no anxiety to put the machine through its higher paces. "I've had a rough week," he said, "and my nerves are shaky. Do you mind if we take our time?"
"No," said Barbara, "my nerves are shaky, too. And I want to talk to you without having the words blown out of my mouth and scattered all over Long Island."
He bowed over the steering-wheel, and said: "It's good to know that you want to talk to me. Is it to be about you, about me--or us?"
Barbara leaned luxuriously against the scientifically placed cushion, all her muscles relaxed. "You," she said, "are to play several parts, Wilmot."
"And always one," he answered softly.
"Not now," she said, "please. First you are to play priest, and listen to confession. Then you are to confess, or I am to do it for you, and receive penance."
"While I'm priest," he said, "do I impose any penance on you?"
"I'll listen to suggestions," said she, "that point toward absolution."
"I am now clothed In my priestly outfit," said Wilmot; "you have entered the confessional. I listen."