The words flashed their accusation at her with unmistakable clarity. "Yes," she assented once more, slowly, "I did." And then, with pained surprise, "Why, that was a lie, wasn't it?"
"And now," finished Ted ruthlessly, "you're making up lies about heaven for yourself! What's the matter with you, Sheila?"
They had reached Mrs. Caldwell's gate, and for a moment they stood staring at each other, the question hanging in the air between them. Then there came to Sheila a swift, inward vision of the contradictions of her own temperament, a vision untempered by the merciful knowledge that, in the final analysis, all human nature is very much alike.
"Oh," she cried, "what is the matter with me?"
And with a sob, she fled up the path to the house, leaving Ted frightened, ashamed, and more bewildered than ever.
CHAPTER III
The moment when Sheila had that terrifying inward vision of her own inconsistencies marked the beginning of her self-consciousness. For a while this was acute and painful. She was always afraid of finding herself, quite unintentionally, involved in a labyrinth of untruth, and her conscience, which passionately rejected any dishonesty that it perceived, was continually occupied in analyzing her emotions and impulses, her most guileless thoughts and her simplest actions.
"I am naturally a liar," she told herself solemnly. "I must watch myself all the time—because I am naturally a liar!"
But she said nothing of her self-revelation and ensuing struggles to Mrs. Caldwell. It was a thing to be overcome in shame and silence, and alone, this innate wickedness of hers.