r Bassett's "lady-like" tastes.

"I suppose you know nothing of the school she sent him to?" Miss Bracy
went on--"King William's, or whatever it is."

"King Edward's," Mr. Frank corrected. "Yes, I made inquiries about it
at the time--ten years ago. People speak well of it. Not a public
school, of course--at least, not quite; the line isn't so easy to draw
nowadays--but it turns out gentlemen."

In her heart Miss Bracy thought him too hopeful; but she said,
"He wrote a becoming letter--his hand, by the way, curiously suggests
yours; it was quite a nice letter, and agreeably surprised me.
I shouldn't wonder if his headmaster had helped him with it and cut out
the boyish heroics; for of course _she_ must have taught him to hate
us."

"My dear Laura, why in the world--" began Mr. Frank testily.

"Oh, she had spirit!"--the encounter of long ago rose up in Miss Bracy's
memory, and she nodded her head with conviction. "Like most of the
quiet ones, she had spirit. You don't suppose, I imagine, that she
forgave?"

"No." Mr. Frank came to a halt and dug with his heel at a daisy root in
the turf. Then using his heel as a pivot he swung himself round in an
awkward circle. The action was ludicrous almost, but he faced his
cousin again with serious eyes. "But it is not her heart that I doubt,"
he added gently.

Miss Bracy stared up at him, "My dear Frank, do you mean to tell me that
you _regret_?"

Yes; as a fact he did regret, and knew that he would never cease to
regret. He was not a man to nurse malice even for a wrong done to him,
still less to live carelessly conscious of having wronged another.
He was weak, but incurably just. And more; though self entered last
into his regret, he knew perfectly well that the wrong had wrecked him
too. His was a career _manque_: he had failed as a man, and it had
broken his nerve as an artist. He was a dabbler now, with--as Heine
said of de Musset--a fine future _behind him_, and none but an artist
can tell the bitterness of that self-knowledge. Had he kept his faith
with Bassett in spirit as in letter, he might have failed just as
decidedly; her daily companionship might have coarsened his inspiration,
soured him, driven him to work cheaply, recklessly; but at least he
could have accused fate, circumstance, a boyish error, whereas now he
and his own manhood shared the defeat and the responsibility. Yes, he
regretted; but it would never do to let Laura know his regret.