heart failed her, but she said bravely, "Perhaps you need a
confessor, Sir Philip."

"I do, a gracious one, who can listen well."

"Then a woman would never serve," Claire laughed. "She would want to
talk, you know."

Philip stopped, and looked at her. As far as he could see, she was calm,
indifferent, the lady making talk.

"Perhaps," he said, lightly. "They have that reputation, I know."

"Now, I"--she laughed--"I, also, need a confessor."

"You?" His look searched her, incredulously. "What in the name of all
the saints have you to confess?"

"Oh! Many things. Misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes in
character reading, mean thoughts, lots of things."

"Absurd!" His tone was amused. "Who of us is not a sinner in those
things?"

"But suppose," she ventured, hesitant--"suppose I had misjudged you?
Suppose I had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?"

"I should be sorry if you told me of them."

It was impossible, she thought, to go on. He would indeed be sorry, and
how foolish she had been! But what had he meant a moment before?

"Is your confession worse?" she asked.

"I think so. A man is so apt to be a mad fool," he said, and lapsed into
silence.

They walked some distance before either spoke. Then Claire laughed
suddenly. "Philip," she said, "we all three need a change of scene."

He turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. "It will be
here soon. We can go out in April."

He had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. It was her
golden opportunity; and she took it.

"Splendid!" she cried--"splendid! I so want to get back to my husband. I
am scarcely able to wait at all."

"I suppose," he said, "it seems a long time that you have been
separated."

"Oh, so long," she answered, softly. "And I do so want him."

He walked on, slowly. "I shall miss you very much."

Her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when she
answered. "Really, I was so afraid I had been stupid company, and I owe
so much to you. My husband will want to come clear back here to thank
you for your winter's hospitality."

"It would hardly be worth his while. The debt is more than paid."

"I shall be sorry--in a way," she went on. "We have become such good
friends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness to
remember. I shall always be glad of that."

"Yes," he said. "I am glad, indeed, that you feel so."

"If any one had ever told me