“Oughtn’t I to tell Harry?” she asked.
“Tell him what?” cried the Canon, perfectly aghast.
“I think he ought to know that I was engaged to Bertram.”
“Certainly not,” he answered, with the utmost decision. “I entirely forbid you to do anything of the sort, and I hope you’ve been sufficiently punished for your wilful disobedience to obey me now. Wroxham is very susceptible, and it’s your duty to give him no anxiety. And whatever you do, don’t begin your married life by confessing everything to your husband. It will only bore him to death. Besides, one never can tell the whole truth, and it leads inevitably to deception and subterfuge.”
“But suppose he finds out?”
Canon Spratte gave a sigh of genuine relief, for after all the fear of discovery is the easiest form of conscience to deal with.
“Is that all you’re frightened of, my darling?” he said. “Leave it to me. I’ll tell him all that’s necessary.”
And the next time he found himself alone with Wroxham, he took the opportunity to set the matter right.
“By the way, Harry, Winnie wants me to tell you something that’s rather worrying her. You know what girls are. They often have a sensitiveness of conscience which is very charming but at the same time rather ridiculous. I don’t suppose you ever heard of a young man called Railing?’ ”
“You mean the Socialist? Winnie gave me his book to read.”