CONFIDENCE
seemed to reduce the offence to contemptible proportions by simple vagueness of mind about it.
"I don't know what to call it," said Bernard. "A poor service—an ill turn."
Angela gave a shrug, or rather an imitation of a shrug; for she was not a shrugging person.
"I never knew it."
"I misrepresented you to Gordon Wright," Bernard went on.
"Why do you speak to me of him?" she asked, rather sadly.
"Does it displease you?"
She hesitated a little.
"Yes, it displeases me. If your confession has anything to do with him, I would rather not hear it."
Bernard returned to the subject another time—he had plenty of opportunities. He spent a portion of every day in the company of these dear women, and such days were the happiest of his life. The autumn weather was warm and soothing, the quartier was still deserted, and the uproar of the great city, which seemed a hundred miles away, reached them through the dense October air with a softened and muffled sound. The evenings, however, were growing cool, and before long the first fire of the season was lighted in Mrs. Vivian's heavily-draped little chimneypiece. On this occasion Bernard sat there with Angela, watching the bright crackle of the wood, and feeling that the charm of winter nights had begun. These two young persons were alone together in the gathering dusk; it was the hour before dinner, before the lamp had been lighted.
"I insist upon making you my confession," said Bernard. "I shall be very unhappy until you let me do it."
"Unhappy? You are the happiest of men."
"I lie upon roses, if you will; but this memory,
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