"Oh," put in Derrick, "it's a woman's word; but I am in a womanish sort of humor. I am going to be—I suppose, one might say—confidential."
The Reverend Paul reddened a little, but as Derrick rather avoided looking at him he did not observe the fact.
"Grace," he said, after a silence, "I have a sort of confession to make. I am in a difficulty, and I rather blame myself for not having come to you before."
"Don't blame yourself," said the curate, faintly. "You—you are not to blame."
Then Derrick glanced up at him quickly. This sounded so significant of some previous knowledge of his trouble, that he was taken aback. He could not quite account for it.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible that you have guessed it already?"
"I have thought so—sometimes I have thought so—though I feel as if I ought almost to ask your pardon for going so far."
Grace had but one thought as he spoke. His friend's trouble meant his friend's honor and regard for himself. It was for his sake that Derrick was hesitating on the brink of a happy love—unselfishly fearing for him. He knew the young man's impetuous generosity, and saw how under the circumstances, it might involve him. Loving Anice Barholm with the full strength of a strong nature, Derrick was generous enough still to shrink from his prospect of success with the woman his friend had failed to win.
Derrick flung himself back in his chair with a sigh. he was thinking, with secret irritation, that he must have felt even more than he had acknowledged to himself, since he had, in all unconsciousness, confessed so much.
