“Are you in love with Mrs. Murray?”
“Yes,” answered Basil, after a moment’s pause.
“D’you think she cares for you?”
“The other night I felt sure of it, but now again I’m doubtful. Oh, I want her to care for me. I can’t help it, Frank, this is quite a different love from the other; it lifts me up and supports me. I don’t want to seem a prig, but when I think of Mrs. Murray I can’t imagine anything unworthy. And I’m proud of it because my love for her is almost spiritual. If she does care for me and will marry me, I think I may do some good in the world. I fancied that if I went away for six months Jenny would gradually think less of me—I think it’s better to drift apart than just to break cruelly at once.”
“It would certainly be less painful to you,” said Frank.
“And when I’m free I shall go to Mrs. Murray, tell her the whole story, and ask her to marry me.”
Basil lived in a pleasant court of the Temple to which, notwithstanding the sordid contentions of its daily life, the old red houses and the London plane-trees, with their leafy coolness, gave a charm full of repose. His rooms, on the top floor, were furnished simply, but with the taste of a man who cared for beautiful things. The ladies of Sir Peter Lely, with their sweet artificial grace, looked down in mezzotint from the panelled walls, and the Sheraton furniture gave a delicate austerity to the student’s room.
Frank filled his pipe, but they had not been long seated, when there came a knock at the door.
“I wonder who the dickens that is?” said Basil. “I don’t often have visitors on Sunday afternoon.”
He went into the tiny passage and opened. Frank heard Jenny’s voice.