He threw himself beside her chair, seized her head in his hands, and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm not fit to be your husband. You're too good for me," he said softly. She drew away from him with a smile. "And will it make you very much happier if I go to confession?" he asked. "Yes, Jules, very much." For an instant he hesitated, looking into her eyes. "Then I'll go," he said. She turned to him, and threw her arms around his neck. As he held her closely to him, his lips pressed against her hair, he went on:-- "But it will be hard for me, Blanche. I haven't been to confession for more than twelve years. Think of all the things I shall have to tell." "It will be over in a few minutes," she said reassuringly. "Then you'll be glad you've done it." He rose to his feet and drew his chair nearer hers. "I've even forgotten how to make a confession. I don't even remember the _Confiteor_." "Then I shall have to teach it to you. It's in my prayer-book, and you can take it and learn it." "But I sha'n't know what to do. I shall appear awkward and foolish." "It's easy enough. You begin by examining your conscience; then you--" "Examining my conscience! I shall have to wake it up first. It's been sound asleep all these years. Ah, my dear Blanche, you can't imagine how pleasant it is to have your conscience asleep." She ignored his jesting, and went on: "Then you have to be sorry for what you've done,--for the sins, I mean." "But if you're not sorry. They've been very pleasant, a good many of them." "Of course, if you aren't sorry you can't go to confession. That's what people go for, because they _are_ sorry, and because they intend to try to be better." "But all the confessions in the world wouldn't make me better. It's only you that can do that. I'm sorry for my sins simply because, when I think of them, they take me so far away from you. If I hadn't met you, I shouldn't have thought they were so bad. But when I think of you, Blanche, and when I look at you, you seem so good--well, I--I feel ashamed, and then I want to be good too. Why can't I confess to you?" he went on banteringly. "You'd do me more good than all the priests in Christendom. Only I'm afraid I should shock you. I suppose the priests hear stories like mine every day; so one or two more or less wouldn't make any difference to them." She turned her head away, and he saw that he had offended her. So he patted her cheek and smiled into her face. "What a little _dévote_ she is, anyway! She's vexed even when I joke about her religion. Don't you see that it's all fun, dear? I'm going to do everything you say, make a clean breast of it to the priest, tell him I'm sorry, and promise to be good for the rest of my life. It won't be hard to promise that. How can I help being good when I shall have you with me all the time?"