Even a year before Basil would have answered that he hoped never to grow tolerant of dishonour, but now, ashamed, he sat in silence. His effort was to assume the air of polite indifference which his mother used so easily. He foresaw her next question, and it tortured him that he must expose part at least of his secret to that scornful woman; yet, just because it was so distasteful, he meant to answer openly.
“And whom are you going to marry?”
“No one you have ever heard of,” he answered, smiling.
“Do you wish to make a secret of the fortunate creature’s name?”
“Miss Bush.”
“That doesn’t sound very distinguished, does it? Who is her father?”
“He’s in the City.”
“Rich?” ’
“Very poor.”
Lady Vizard looked at her son keenly, then with a peculiar expression leaned forward.