"Bless me! But you told me that day you had mistaken me for—for him."
The baby! I had forgotten what that old Edward told me—that this trusting soul actually still believed all I'd told him. What was I to do? I tell you, Mag, it's no light thing to get accustomed to telling the truth. You never know where it'll lead you. Here was I—just a clever little lie or two and the dear old Bishop would be happy and contented again. But no; that fatal habit that I've acquired of telling the truth to Fred and you mastered me—and I fell.
"You know, Bishop," I said, shutting my eyes and speaking fast to get it over—as I imagine you must, Mag, when you confess to Father Phelan—"that was all a—a little farce-comedy—the whole business—all of it—every last word of it!"
"A comedy!"
I opened my eyes to laugh at him; he was so bewildered.
"I mean a—a fib; in fact, many of them. I—I was just—it was long ago—and I had to make you believe—"
His soft old eyes looked at me unbelieving. "You don't mean to say you deliberately lied!"
Now, that was what I did mean—just what I did mean—but not in that tone of voice.
But what could I do? I just looked at him and nodded.
Oh, Maggie, I felt so little and so nasty! I haven't felt like that since I left the Cruelty. And I'm not nasty, Maggie, and I'm Fred Obermuller's wife, and—