THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
And in his heart Lord George made a good resolve. He would put away from him all his worldly possessions. All the money that he had won at the clubs, fairly or foully, all that hideous accretion of gold guineas, he would distribute among the comrades he had impoverished. As he walked, with the sweet and trustful girl at his side, the vague record of his infamy assailed him, and a look of pain shot behind his smooth mask. He would atone. He would shun no sacrifice that might cleanse his soul. All his fortune he would put from him. Follard Chase he would give back to Sir Follard. He would sell his house in St. James’s Square. He would keep some little part of his patrimony, enough for him in the wood, with Jenny, but no more.
“I shall be quite poor, Jenny,” he said.
And they talked of the things that lovers love to talk of, how happy they would be together and how economical. As they were passing Herbert’s pastry shop, which as my little readers know, still stands in Kensington, Jenny looked up rather wistfully into her lover’s ascetic face.
“Should you think me greedy,” she asked him, “if I wanted a bun? They have beautiful buns here!”
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