“Did she?”
“Yes, after breakfast. She was back again in time to give Bennett his tea.”
Two days later Minna returned to London. The day after she had gone, Basil appeared with a drawn, miserable face. He asked Francis if he might speak to him, and Francis, quaking, led him into the study. Basil said he had been abroad. Minna had run away from him with the children.
“She came here,” said Francis. “For all we know, she was writing to you every day and hearing from you. She said she was hearing from you. . . . Only just before she went she spoke about your letters. She went back to London yesterday. You ought to be with her. . . . In my opinion you ought to have fetched her back months ago.”
Basil seemed to have a great deal to say, but he gulped it down and reached out for the railway guide.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose we must try again.”
“If you want money,” said Francis, “I would rather you came to me than were obliged to any one else.”
“It isn’t money. Thanks all the same.”
Francis felt his heart sink, but he let it pass. It seemed all the more imperative to him that Basil should hurry back to London. He bustled him out of the house and saw him to the station.
Three weeks passed during which no word came from Minna or Basil. Francis did not write to them, hoping that they were settling their differences—whatever they might be.