“This sounds like a sermon: firstly—secondly”—Amy murmured, signing her name to her thanks for the third asparagus fork.
—“in the third place, if the man has reformed, there was an essential untruth in posing as a sinner.”
“Well, I don’t quite agree with that,” began Mrs. Paul.
“He’s right; he’s right,” John Paul declared. “I say, West, suppose we went about confessing some of our college performances?” The senior warden of St. James grinned, but his wife looked displeased.
“I don’t believe you ever did anything very bad, John; but if you did, I think you should have confessed to me.”
“I stole some signs, Kate,” he told her; “can you forgive me?”
Amy, listening, smiling, said with that charming sidewise glance at her lover: “Cousin Kate is quite right. I should never forgive a man who didn’t tell me everything! Billy, come here and confess. Have you ever done anything wicked?”
“We are all miserable sinners,” John Paul murmured. “I say so publicly every Sunday”—
“But you don’t specify!” the minister reminded him, with a laugh.
“Yes; but, Billy,” Amy Townsend insisted, “doesn’t it say somewhere that ‘confession is good for the soul’?”