"I didn't intend to be humorous," he said, with some severity. "I am fond of children, and, unfortunately, I—I am childless."
He buried his face in his handkerchief, and, removing it after a decent interval, found that his indignant hostess was preparing to quit the room.
"Don't go," he said, hastily. "I haven't finished yet."
"I haven't got time to stay and talk nonsense," said Joan.
"I'm not going to," said Robert, "but I want to speak to you. I have a confession to make."
"Confession?"
Mr. Vyner nodded with sad acquiescence. "I deceived you grossly the other day," he said, "and it has been worrying me ever since."
"It doesn't matter," said Joan, with a lively suspicion of his meaning.
"Pardon me," said Mr. Vyner, with solemn politeness, "if I say that it does. I—I lied to you, and I have been miserable ever since."