Jeffray sat and watched the painter’s face. He had never hinted to Wilson that he himself was on the verge of a betrothal with this very Miss Hardacre, nor had the Lady Letitia dropped a syllable upon the subject. The revelation had come as something of a shock to Jeffray’s sensitive nature. He began to suspect that certain of his aunt’s scandals might be true, and that the sweet Jilian had lost much of the bloom of her unkissed maidenhood. Wilson professed to deal with a romance that had blossomed ten years ago, and Jeffray seemed to see of a sudden a whole ghastly array of subsequent gallants rising before him to impeach Miss Hardacre’s unsophisticated soul.
“I am sorry, Dick,” he said, “that we persuaded you to go to Hardacre. If you had warned me—this might have been prevented.”
Wilson sat with his chin upon his chest, smoking vigorously, and staring at the fire.
“True, very true, sir,” he said, patiently. “I am afraid I have been misled by your aunt, sir, who professed to know all about the romance. She swore to me, Richard, that it was an affair of the past, and that no people of fashion ever distressed themselves about such things. Why, Richard, she even told me that the Hardacres were ready to welcome me as a friend of yours.”
Jeffray sat up suddenly in his chair, his pale face flushing as the truth appeared.
“Miss Hardacre never knew your name, Dick,” he persisted.
“Deuce take me, sir, she must have known it. Your revered relative herself assured me that there was no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre.”
“Why, at the rout to-night, sir, she came to tell me that Miss Hardacre had been inquiring for me. She made me unmask, sir, marched me up to the girl, shouted out my name, after that—came the deluge.”
Richard twisted in his chair and swore. He understood now how the affair had come about. It had been a carefully spun plot upon the part of the Lady Letitia, and poor Wilson had been duped into lending himself to her plans. Richard realized that the dowager’s excessive graciousness towards the painter had been nothing but diplomatic cunning to lure Dick into the toils.
“I understand it all now, Dick,” he said, rising, and helping himself to another glass of wine.