“I take it that you had better see the lad,” quoth the baronet, as he ladelled out another glass of punch. “You can see what temper he shows, Lot, whether he’s inclined to shy or not.”
Mr. Lancelot twisted his mouth into an expressive pucker, and appeared inspired by a sense of his own cleverness.
“Poor Jill’s a deuced fright, but for God’s sake, boy, don’t tell her I said so.”
“She’ll wipe the spots out a bit in time. Give the girl a chance.”
Sir Peter grunted laboriously, and unfastened the lower buttons of his waistcoat. His mottled face appeared heavy and lugubrious despite his frequent reversions to the punch-bowl and his confidence in his son’s astuteness.
“It’s deuced hard luck on the wench, Lot,” he said; “and Richard gave her the ugly face, there’s no denying it.”
“I’ll rub that truth into him, sir, never fear.”
“Richard wants stroking the right way, sir, and taking on the high poetic horse. He’s a man of sentiment, and he’ll swallow the stuff like senna, and thrive on it, by gad! I know my mount, sir,” and Mr. Lot laid a fat forefinger along his nose.
“Well, well,” said the baronet, reflectively, “I don’t want the lass jilted again; we’ve had enough of it before. And Dick Jeffray’s a pleasant lad with a useful pot of money to his name.”
“Don’t I know the color of a guinea, sir?” quoth Mr. Lot, with a thick laugh.
It may easily be gathered that Richard Jeffray was soon favored with a state visit from Mr. Lancelot Hardacre. Richard had been dreading some such interview not a little, even as a sensitive spirit dreads contact with the boisterous, blustering, physical barbarian. Richard’s revulsion from the responsibilities he had created for himself in the past had waxed tenfold in strength since his discovery of Bess’s shame. His sense of bondage chafed his pride, the more so, perhaps, because he was honest enough to acknowledge the truth of his obligation.
There was always a suggestion of patronage in Mr. Lot’s manner that presupposed his cousin to be but half a man. It was so that morning when he dismounted before the priory porch. The genial swagger of the man, the glare of his red coat, the crunching of his heavy boots upon the gravel inspired Jeffray with an instinctive antagonism. Mr. Lot had squeezed his cousin’s hand heartily enough and rallied him upon his looks. They walked the terrace together, for Richard had gone out to meet Lancelot at the porch.