Chapter Twenty-two—A Full Confession
Marcel and I had some leisure the next morning at our quarters.
"Marcel," said I, "I wish to talk to you on a matter of serious import."
"It must be of very high import, in truth," said Marcel, "if I may judge of its nature from the solemn look that clothes your face like a shroud."
"It is no matter of jest," I replied, "and it is of close concern to us both."
"Very well," replied Marcel, carelessly, flinging himself into a chair. "Then let it be kept a secret no longer."
"It is this, Marcel," I replied, and I was in deep earnest. "I am tired of the false characters we have taken upon ourselves. The parts are awkward. We do not fit in them. We have been required to serve against our own people. Only luck, undeserved luck, has saved us from the rope. I want to reassume my own character and my own name, to be myself again."
I spoke with some heat and volubility. I was about to add that I was sorry ever to have gone into such a foolish enterprise, but the thought of a fair woman's face recalled the words. And this brought me another thought—that I was unwilling to continue this false rôle with Mary Desmond's eyes upon me.