Jenny braced herself for a painful effort. She looked away, and her voice trembled.
“I don’t know what’s to be done. He’s got into trouble. Unless he can find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are going to prosecute.”
“What on earth d’you mean, Jenny?”
“Oh, Basil, don’t be angry. I was so ashamed to tell you, I’ve been hiding it for a month; but now I can’t any more. Something went wrong with his accounts.”
“D’you mean to say he’s been stealing?” asked Basil, sternly; and a feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.
“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” she cried, for his eyes, his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing on her own account some despicable crime. “He didn’t mean to be dishonest. I don’t exactly understand, but he can tell you how it all was. Oh, Basil, you won’t let him be sent to prison! Couldn’t he have the money instead of my going away?”
Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and resting his face thoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny’s fixed, appealing gaze. He did not want her to see the consternation, the abject shame, with which her news oppressed him. But all the same she saw.
“What are you thinking about, Basil?”
“Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.”
“You don’t think because he’s my brother I must be tarred with the same brush?”