Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.
“Good God, don’t you realize the man’s a thief! Doesn’t it mean anything to you that he’s dishonest? Don’t you see how awful it is that a man—”
He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they had ever had, and a shrewish look came to Jenny’s face, her pallor gave way to an angry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself. Recollecting his wife’s illness and her bitter disappointment at the poor babe’s death, he keenly regretted the outburst.
“I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn’t mean to say that. I should have remembered you were fond of him.”
But since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat down on the arm of her chair and stroked her wonderful rich tresses.
“Don’t be cross, darling. We won’t quarrel, will we?”
Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and passionately she kissed his caressing hands.
“No, no,” she cried. “I love you too much. Don’t ever speak angrily to me; it hurts so awfully.”
The momentary cloud passed, and they spoke of the approaching visit to Brighton. Jenny was to take lodgings, and she made him promise faithfully that he would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room in Harley Street, and while she was away Basil meant to stay with him.
“You won’t forget me, Basil?”