This speech was indiscreet. George recognised it, when Neaera’s answering glance reached him.
“That will make them talk worse than ever,” she said, smiling. “You ought never to speak to me again, Mr. Neston.”
“Oh, we are damned beyond redemption, so we may as well enjoy ourselves.”
“No, you mustn’t shock your friends still more.”
“I have no friends left to shock,” replied George, bitterly.
Neaera implored him not to say that, running over the names of such as might be supposed to remain faithful. George shook his head at each name: when the Pocklingtons were mentioned, his shake was big with sombre meaning.
“Well, well,” she said with a sigh, “and now what are you going to do?”
“Oh, nothing. I think some of us are going to have a run to Brighton. I shall go, just to get out of this.”
“Is Brighton nice now?”
“Nicer than London, anyhow.”