“Where are you going?” asked Phemie.
“I have no plan; I am not sure; I do not know.”
“Well, then, I do,” she interrupted. “You will go direct off to bed, and take something at once to prevent your catching your death of cold.”
“He was not cold,” he persisted. “He was burning with heat—he had walked over from the station carrying Fay—and——”
“Took off your top-coat to keep her dry,” again interrupted Phemie; “the consequence of which will be that if you do not take immediate care of yourself, you will be seriously ill.”
“He did not mind that—he should like to be ill—he should like to die. If it had not been for Fay, he would first have shot Georgina, and then himself.”
“What has she done?” asked Phemie, hushing the child, who, having been awakened by the light and the talking, had begun to cry.
“She has been false to me,” he answered.
“Nonsense,” retorted Phemie. “Basil, you are mad, as I said before.”
“Perhaps so; but a thing like that is enough to make a man feel a little discomposed;” and he thrust a letter into her hand, which she held unopened while she said:—