"Very serious things," she repeated, gazing through the window, where green tree-tops swayed in the breezy sunlight; and she pressed her cheek closer to his arm.
"I have not been very—good," she said.
He looked at her, suppressed the smile that twitched at his mouth, and waited.
"I wish I could give myself to you as clean and sweet and untainted as—as you deserve.... I can't; and before we go any further I must tell you——"
"Why, you blessed child," he exclaimed, half laughing, half serious. "You are not going to confess to me, are you?"
"Duane, I've got to tell you everything. I couldn't rest unless I was perfectly honest with you."
"But, dear," he said, a trifle dismayed, "such confidences are not necessary. Nor am I fit to hear your list of innocent transgressions——"
"Oh, they are not very innocent. Let me tell you; let me cleanse myself as much as I can. I don't want to have any secrets from you, Duane. I want to go to you as guiltless as confession can make me. I want to begin clean. Let me tell you. Couldn't you let me tell you, Duane?"
"And I, dear? Do—do you expect me to tell you? Do you expect me to do as you do?"
She looked up at him surprised; she had expected it. Something in his face warned her of her own ignorance.