Philip stopped, and looked at her. As far as he could see, she was calm, indifferent, the lady making talk.
"Perhaps," he said, lightly. "They have that reputation, I know."
"Now, I"—she laughed—"I, also, need a confessor."
"You?" His look searched her, incredulously. "What in the name of all the saints have you to confess?"
"Oh! Many things. Misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes in character reading, mean thoughts, lots of things."
"Absurd!" His tone was amused. "Who of us is not a sinner in those things?"
"But suppose," she ventured, hesitant—"suppose I had misjudged you? Suppose I had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?"
"I should be sorry if you told me of them."
It was impossible, she thought, to go on. He would indeed be sorry, and how foolish she had been! But what had he meant a moment before?
"Is your confession worse?" she asked.