“The churchwarden is waking up in Basil, and I feel sure he will have a very successful career. But I shall warn him not to let that ecclesiastical functionary get the upper hand.”
Miss Ley waited for Basil to speak of Mrs. Murray, but after two days her patience was exhausted, and she attacked him point-blank. At the mention of the name his cheeks flamed.
“I daren’t go and see her. After what happened, I can never see her again. I am steeling myself to forget.”
“And are you succeeding?” she asked, dryly.
“No, no—I shall never succeed. I’m more desperately in love with her than ever I was. But I couldn’t marry her now. The recollection of poor Jenny would be continually between us, for it was we, Hilda and I, who drove her to her death.”
“Don’t be a melodramatic idiot,” answered Miss Ley, sharply. “You talk like the persecuted hero of a penny novelette. Hilda’s very fond of you, and she has the feminine common sense which alone counterbalances in the world the romantic folly of men. What on earth do you imagine is the use of making yourselves wretched so that you may cut a picturesque figure? I should have thought you were cured of heroics. You wrote and told me that the world was for the living—an idea which has truth rather than novelty to recommend it—and do you think there is any sense in posturing absurdly to impress an inattentive gallery?”
“How do I know that Hilda cares for me still? She may hate me because I brought on her humiliation and shame.”
“If I were you I’d go and ask her,” laughed Miss Ley. “And go with good heart, for she cared for you for your physical attractiveness rather than for your character. And that, I may tell you, whatever moralists say, is infinitely more reliable; since you may easily be mistaken in a person’s character, but his good looks are obvious and visible. You’re handsomer than ever you were.”
When Basil set out to call on Mrs. Murray, Miss Ley amused herself with conjecturing ironically the scene of their meeting. With curling lips she noted in her mind’s eye the embarrassed handshake, the trivial conversation, the disconcerting silence, and without sympathy imagined the gradual warmth and the passionate declaration that followed. She moralized.
“A common mistake of writers is to make their characters in moments of great emotion express themselves with good taste. Nothing could be more false, for, at such times, people, however refined, use precisely the terms of the Family Herald. The utterance of violent passion is never artistic, but trite, ridiculous, and grotesque, vulgar often and silly.” Miss Ley smiled. “Probably novelists alone make love in a truly romantic manner, but then it’s ten to one they’re quoting from some unpublished work, or are listening intently to themselves in admiration of their glowing and polished phraseology.”