Presently the new-comer finished his liquor and lit a cigarette. He glanced suspiciously at Basil, and opened his mouth to make an observation, but catching the other’s steady look, thought better of it.
“Good-night then,” he said to Jenny.
When he was gone Basil asked her why she had not thrown him over; it would have been better than to vex her lover.
“I don’t care,” cried Jenny; “I’m about sick of the airs he gives himself. I’m not married to him yet, and if he won’t let me do as I like now he can just take himself off.”
They dined at a restaurant in Soho, and Basil, in high spirits over the little adventure, was amused with the girl’s delight. It did his heart good to cause such pleasure, and perhaps his satisfaction was not lessened by the attention which Jenny’s comeliness attracted. She was rather shy, but when Basil strove to entertain her laughed very prettily and flushed: the idea came to him that he would much like to be of use to her, for she seemed to have a very agreeable nature; he might give her new ideas and a view of the beauty of life which she had never known. She wore a hat, and he morning dress, so they took seats in the back-row of the dress circle at the Gaiety; but even this was unwonted luxury to Jenny, accustomed to the pit or the upper boxes. At the end of the performance she turned to him with dancing eyes.
“Oh, I have enjoyed myself,” she cried. “I like going out with you much more than with Tom; he’s always trying to save money.”
They took a cab to the Golden Crown, where Jenny shared a room with the other barmaid.
“Will you come out with me again?” asked Basil.
“Oh, I should love to. You’re so different from the other men who come to the bar. You’re a gentleman, and you treat me—as if I was a lady. That’s why I first liked you, because you didn’t go on as if I was a lump of dirt: you always called me Miss Bush. . . .”
“I’d much rather call you Jenny.”