“I didn’t venture to reproach you, Basil,” said Frank dryly.
“I meant to do only good to the girl. But I lost my head. After all, if we were all as cool at night as we are in the morning. . . .”
“Life would be a Sunday-school,” interrupted Frank.
At that moment they were near Westminster Bridge, and a carriage passed them. They saw that in it sat Mrs. Murray, and she bowed gravely; Basil reddened and looked back.
“I wonder if she’s on the way to Miss Ley.”
“Would you like to go back and see?” asked Frank coldly.
He looked sharply at Basil, who flushed again, and then threw off his momentary hesitation.
“No,” he answered firmly; “let us go on.”
“Is it on account of Mrs. Murray that you wish to throw over Jenny?”
“Oh, Frank, don’t think too hardly of me. I hate the ugly sordid vulgarity of an intrigue. I wanted to lead a cleaner life than most men because of my—because of Lady Vizard; and when I’ve been with Jenny I’m disgusted with myself. If I’d never seen Mrs. Murray, I should still do all I could to finish.”