"What compunctions?"
"The word slipped me unintended," stammers I; "I mean nothing."
"But something your word must mean. Come, out with it, Kit."
"Well," says I, "since this fondness has possessed her, I have observed a greater compunction to telling of lies than she was wont to have."
"’Tis my fault," answers he, sadly. "She gets this leaning to honesty from me."
"This very morning," continues I, "she was, I truly believe, of two minds whether she should not confess to her sweetheart that she was not his cousin."
"For all the world my case!" cries he, slapping the table. "If I could only have five minutes in secret with the dear girl, I would give her a hint that should make her profit by my folly." And then he tells me how, in the heyday of courtship and the flush of confiding love, he did confess to his wife that he had carried gallantry somewhat too far with Sukey Taylor, and might have added a good half dozen other names beside hers but for her sudden outcry; and how, though she might very well have suspected other amours, she did never reproach him therewith, but was for ever to her dying day a-flinging Sukey Taylor in his teeth, etc.
"Lord, Kit!" cries he, in conclusion; "what would I give to save her from such torment! You know how obedient she is to my guiding, for I have ever studied to make her respect me; and no one in the world hath such empire over her. Could it not be contrived anyhow that we should meet for half an hour secretly?"
