“What a memory!”
She laughed flippantly, but there was triumph in her eyes; for he seemed to have forgotten completely the visit to Barnes, and his recollection was only of their mutual love.
“I often think of the long talks we used to have,” he said. “Except for you, I should never have written my book.”
“Ah, yes, before you married, wasn’t it?”
She uttered the words carelessly, with a smile, but she meant to wound; and Basil’s face grew on a sudden deathly pale, an inexpressible pain darkened his eyes, and his lips trembled. Mrs. Murray observed him with a cruel curiosity. Sometimes in her anger she had prayed for an occasion of revenge for all the torture she had suffered, and this was the beginning. She hated him now, she told herself—she hated him furiously. At that moment she caught sight of Mr. Farley, the fashionable parson, and smiled. As she expected, he came forward.
“Did you get a letter from me?” she asked, holding out her hand.
“Thanks so much. I’ve already written to accept.”
Her question was not without malice, for she wished Basil to understand that she had sent Mr. Farley some invitation. Unwillingly, the younger man rose from her side, and the vicar of All Souls’ took the vacant place. As Basil sauntered away, sore at heart, she addressed the new-comer with a flattering, though somewhat unusual, cordiality.
“Tiens! There’s chaste Lucretia. How on earth did you get here?”
Basil started, and his face grew suddenly cold and hard when at his elbow he heard his mother’s mocking voice.