“You know very well who I mean, George. She told it to you, didn’t she?”
“Why, don’t you think I remembered you—remembered seeing you there?”
“I know very well you did not. You may have seen me there, but you did not remember me. The moment I spoke to you on the deck that day in the broken chair, I saw at once you did not remember me, and there is very little use of your trying to pretend you thought of it afterwards. She told it to you, didn’t she?”
“Now, look here, Katherine, it isn’t I who am making a confession, it is you. It is not customary for a penitent to cross-examine the father confessor in that style.”
“It does not make any difference whether you confess or not, George; I shall always know she told you that. After all, I wish she had left it for me to tell. I believe I dislike that woman very much.”
“Shake hands, Kate, over that. So do I. Now, my dear, tell me what she told you.”
“Then she did tell you that, did she?”
“Why, if you are so sure of it without my admitting it, why do you ask again?”
“I suppose because I wanted to make doubly sure.”
“Well, then, assurance is doubly sure. I admit she did.”