Bartlett, like Billy, wondered if he were growing simple-minded. A desire to confide in Henrietta, to tell her what he was up to, had come upon him and seemed too strong to be resisted. Last night, up the quiet country road, alone with Henrietta, he had been forced to suppress the desire sternly, and now in the garish light of day it was still upon him. He took a seat beside her on the stone wall where she tried to be comfortable as she fished olives from a nearly empty bottle, the remains of last night’s supper. "I wonder," said he, hovering on the edge of his foolish desire, "if any one can become a man with nothing to regret." "Certainly not," said Henrietta. "There would always be the years." "I mean something that he had done himself," explained Bartlett soberly, a sandwich in one hand, a buttered roll in the other. "Don’t tell me your troubles," said Henrietta, thinking miserably of the years it would soon be so hard to deny. "I have enough of my own. Confession may be good for the soul, but it’s the death-blow to your reputation." "Father used to say that if there were public confession instead of private in the Catholic church, there would be no Catholics," said the Watermelon, helping Billy to the last of the sardines. "Let’s have a public confession," cried the artless Billy. "Everybody tell the worst thing that they ever did in their lives." The Watermelon laughed and leaned toward her, a moth flirting with the candle flame. "Oh, kid; I’ll bet the worst you ever did was to swipe the jam-pot when ma wasn’t looking." "No," said Billy, "I did an awful thing once." "Let’s hear it." Billy took the olive bottle from Henrietta, speared an olive and passed the bottle on before she spoke. "Will you confess, if I do?" she asked, pausing with the olive half way to her mouth. "Sure," said the Watermelon. "I robbed an apple orchard once." "You’re fooling," accused Billy. "I’m not. I’m really serious." "So am I," vowed the Watermelon. "Billy," said Henrietta, "spare us. I am too young to listen to a tale of depravity." But the lure of the confessional held Billy and she passed Henrietta’s remark without notice. She turned to the Watermelon. "If I tell you the worst thing I ever did, will you tell me the worst you ever did?" "I haven’t done the worst yet," explained the Watermelon. The general having nearly wrecked the cars and seen the damage repaired by Alphonse, hurried to the four sitting on the stone wall. "Come on," said he. "It is time we were going. We have no blue book, you know." "I shouldn’t wonder," said Henrietta, "if there were not a rare chance for some one to confess a heinous crime." She looked at Bartlett as he held out his hand to help her down and her eyes laughed deep into his. "In self-defense—" he pleaded in a whisper.