During our voyage down there was a general agreement to give me plenty of opportunity to remain in Mona’s immediate company, though no one seemed to think we need feel at all embarrassed when our conversation was overheard by others.
“Mona,” I said, “were you glad to see our relief party when they arrived?”
“I was indeed,” she replied, “and yet I was as happy as a bird, living there all by myself and singing for my own amusement the whole day long.”
“It is an astonishing thing to me,” I continued, “that after the doctor and I had left you so unceremoniously you could go back to your lonely home and be happy there.”
“Why, did you think I would mourn for you?”
“Well, yes, I think that would be natural, considering something I know.”
“Oh, I should like to hear what you know.”
“If I tell you, I shall have to make a confession.”
“What is a confession, and how can you make one? Have you anything to make it of?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied, laughing. “A confession is an acknowledgment that one has done something wrong, and should be made to the person to whom the wrong has been done.”