There are men in the world who, through long custom, can find
themselves engaged without any particular whirl of emotion. King
Solomon probably belonged to this class; and even Henry the Eighth
must have become a trifle blase in time. But to the average man, the
novice, the fact of being accepted seems to divide existence into two
definite parts, before and after. A sensitive conscience goads some
into compiling a full and unexpurgated autobiography, the edition
limited to one copy, which is presented to the lady most interested.
Some men find a melancholy pleasure in these confessions. They like to
draw the girl of their affections aside and have a long, cozy chat
about what scoundrels they were before they met her.

But, after all, the past is past and cannot be altered, and it is to
be supposed that, whatever we may have done in that checkered period,
we intend to behave ourselves for the future. So, why harp on it?

Jimmy acted upon this plan. Many men in his place, no doubt, would
have steered the conversation skillfully to the subject of the eighth
commandment, and then said: "Talking about stealing, did I ever tell
you that I was a burglar myself for about six years?" Jimmy was
reticent. All that was over, he told himself. He had given it up. He
had buried the past. Why exhume it? It did not occur to him to confess
his New York crimes to Molly any more than to tell her that, when
seven, he had been caned for stealing jam.

These things had happened to a man of the name of Jimmy Pitt, it was
true. But it was not the Jimmy Pitt who had proposed to Molly in the
canoe on the lake.