"An' I don't want to--I mean, I don't care what about you."

"But it wouldn't be fair until you know," she continued. "There are
things I'd have to tell you, and I don't like to."

She was looking downwards now, and he fancied he could see the color
rising about her cheeks and her frame trembling. He turned toward her
and extended his arms. "Tell me--tell your own George," he cooed.

"No," she said, with sudden rigidity. "I can't confess."

"Come on," he pleaded. "Tell me. I've been a bad man, too."

She seemed to be weighing the matter. "If I tell you, you will never,
never mention it to anyone?"

"Never. I swear it to you," dramatically raising his hand.

"Well," she said, looking down bashfully and making little marks with
her finger-nail in the pole on which they were leaning, "I never told
anyone before, and nobody in the world knows it except he and I, and he
doesn't know it now either, because I killed him.... I had to do it."

"Of course you did, dear," he murmured. It was wonderful to receive a
woman's confidence like this.

"Yes, I had to kill him," she repeated. "You see, he--he proposed to me
without being introduced!"