Basil was to do some work in the city. He was now doing real pot-boilers—illustrations for two books, and some magazine-stories. Teresa assured him that if they could only tide over thus the baby's birth—for they were in debt—next year they might live more simply, keep within their income, and then he needn't do that sort of work, which he detested.
They began the summer very happily together, Basil going up to town two or three days a week, for his drawings had to be realistic pictures of some aspects of the city. They thought they might keep the little cottage till near time for the baby's arrival in December. June passed sweetly and calmly. But at the beginning of July Teresa had a great shock. Gerald Dallas shot himself; and she read the news, a brief, bald report, in her morning paper.
She had not seen him for months, their lives had been completely separated; but her affection for him still lived, and revived suddenly under the sting of pity and self-reproach. Basil that morning had gone to town very early. Trembling and faint, Teresa dressed, took the next train, and went to the studio. She did not find Basil. A telegram from Isabel that morning had summoned him to meet her. She was in town for the day. Accordingly he was lunching at a restaurant with her, and being called to account for his various deficiencies, when
