for. It only needs a little discretion—and no one will be a ha'porth the wiser, nor she a ha'porth the worse.
Basil.
But it's not a matter of people knowing. It's a matter of honour.
John.
[Opening his eyes.] And where precisely did the honour come in when you...?
Basil.
Good heavens, I'm a man like any other. I have passions as other men have.
John.
[Gravely.] My dear Basil, I wouldn't venture to judge you. But I think it's rather late in the day to set up for a moralist.
Basil.
D'you think I've not regretted what I did? It's easy enough afterwards to say that I should have resisted. The world would be a Sunday School if we were all as level-headed at night as we are next morning.
John.
[Shaking his head.] After all, it's only a very regrettable incident due to your youth and—want of innocence.
Basil.
[With vehement seriousness.] I may have acted like a cur. I don't know. I acted as I suppose every other man would. But now I have a plain duty before me, and, by God, I mean to do it.
John.
Don't you realise that you've only one life and that mistakes are irreparable? People play with life as if it were a game of chess in which they can try this move and that, and when they get into a muddle, sweep the board clear and begin again.
Basil.
But life is a game of chess in which one is always beaten. Death sits on the other side of the board, and for every move he has a counter-move. And for all your deep-laid schemes he has a parry.
John.
But if at the end Death always mates you, the fight is surely worth the fighting. Don't handicap yourself at the beginning by foolish quixotry. Life is so full. It has so much to offer, and you're throwing away almost everything that makes it worth the trouble.
Basil.
[Gravely.] Jenny would kill herself if I didn't marry her.
John.
You don't seriously think she'd do that. People don't commit suicide so easily, you know.
Basil.
You've thought of a great deal, John—you've not thought of the child. I can't let the child skulk into the world like a thief. Let him come in openly and lawfully. And let him go through the world with an honest name. Good heavens, the world's bad enough without fettering him all his life with a hideous stigma.
John.
Oh, my dear Basil ...
Basil.
[Interrupting.] You can bring forward a thousand objections, but nothing alters the fact that, under the circumstances, there's only one way open to a man of honour.
John.
[Drily.] Well, it's a way that may do credit to your heart, but scarcely to your understanding.
Basil.
I thought you'd see at once that I was doing the only possible thing.
John.
My dear Basil, you talk of pity, and you talk of duty, but are you sure there's anything more in it than vanity? You've set yourself up on a sort of moral pinnacle. Are you sure you don't admire your own heroism a little too much?
Basil.
[With a good-natured smile.] Does it look so petty as that in your eyes? After all, it's only common morality.
John.
[Impatiently.] But, my dear chap, its absurd to act according to an unrealisable ideal in a world that's satisfied with the second-rate. You're tendering bank-notes to African savages, among whom cowrie shells are common coin.
Basil.
[Smiling.] I don't know what you mean.
John.
Society has made its own decalogue, a code that's just fit for middling people who are not very good and not very wicked. But Society punishes you equally if your actions are higher than its ideal or lower.
Basil.
Sometimes it makes a god of you when you're dead.
John.
But it takes precious good care to crucify you when you're alive.
[There is a knock at the door, and Mrs. Griggs comes in.
Mrs. Griggs.
Some more visitors, Sir.
Basil.
Show 'em in. [To John] It's Jenny. She said she was coming to tea.
John.
[With a smile.] Oh, the cake was for her, was it? Would you like me to go?
Basil.
Not unless you choose. Do you suppose I'm ashamed?
John.
I thought, after all you've told me, you might not care for me to see her.
[Jenny Bush and her brother James come in. She is very pretty, with delicate features and a beautiful complexion: her fair hair is abundant and very elaborately arranged. She is dressed smartly, rather showily. It is the usual type of barmaid, or tea-girl, a shade more refined perhaps than the common run. Her manners are unobjectionable, but not those of a gentlewoman. James is a young man with clean-shaven face and a sharp expression. He is over-dressed in a very horsey manner, and is distinctly more vulgar than his sister. He talks English with a cockney accent, not invariably dropping his aitches, but only now and then. He is over cordial and over genial.
Jenny.
[Going up to Basil.] I'm awfully late, I couldn't come before.
James.
[Jocosely.] Don't mind me. Give 'im a kiss, old tart.
Jenny.
Oh, I brought my brother Jimmie to see you.
Basil.
[Shaking hands.] How d'you do?
James.
Nicely, thanks. Pleased to make
