"Oh, I seem to have known that fact for years and years."
"She told it to you."
"She? What she?"
"You know very well who I mean, George. She told it to you, didn't she?"
"Why, don't you think I remembered you—remembered seeing you there?"
"I know very well you did not. You may have seen me there, but you did not remember me. The moment I spoke to you on the deck that day in the broken chair, I saw at once you did not remember me; and there is very little use of your trying to pretend you thought of it afterward. She told it to you, didn't she?"
"Now, look here, Katherine, it isn't I who am making a confession, it is you. It is not customary for a penitent to cross-examine the father confessor in that style."
"It does not make any difference whether you confess or not, George; I shall always know she told you that. After all, I wish she had left it for me to tell. I believe I dislike that woman very much."
"Shake hands, Kate, over that. So do I. Now, my dear, tell me what she told you."
"Then she did tell you that, did she?"
