“Miss Hardacre caught the small-pox, sir,” he explained, “but she is facing it famously, and Stott declares her to be out of danger. Let me assure you, Richard, that there is no need for you to distress yourself about the lady. Stott forbade me to mention her illness to you until he felt convinced that she would recover.” Jeffray leaned back in his chair with a sigh, frowned, and stared fixedly out of the window. “I must have given it to her, Dick,” he said. Wilson shut the book up with a snap. “Nonsense!” he retorted. “Why imagine such a thing? Nothing is to be gained by saddling one’s self with hypothetical responsibilities.” The sensitive lines about Jeffray’s mouth had deepened, and there was a strained look about his eyes. Wilson, who was watching him affectionately, misread the whole meaning of the mood. He assumed Richard to be in love with Miss Jilian, and magnified his friend’s distress like the warm-hearted fellow that he was. “Dick.” “Well, sir?” “Has she had it badly? Will it—will it disfigure her?” Wilson shut one eye and sniffed, an expression peculiar to him in moments of deep feeling. “Confound it!” he said, cheerfully, “why heap up imaginery woes, sir? Stott has said nothing about scars. Besides, my dear friend, the lady will recover, and that is the great thing, eh?” Jeffray lay back heavily in his chair. “Yes, that is the great thing,” he answered. XXIV Three days after hearing of Jilian’s illness, Jeffray took his first drive with Wilson, in a light chaise that his father had used when his increasing feebleness had debarred him from the saddle. Dame Meg, the most sedate mare in the stable, was between the traces, with Wilson, who was equal to ruling so amiable a lady, in possession of the reins. They rattled through the park and turned down towards Rodenham village, intending to follow the Lewes coach-road as far as the Lane that branched off to Thorney Chapel, a hamlet lying under the southern slopes of Pevensel. Jeffray, who felt the fog shifting from his brain as they rolled along under the open sky, dilated to Wilson on the beauties of the place, insisting that he must paint it, and that he, Richard, would be the purchaser of the picture. He had been striving to persuade the painter to pass the summer at the priory, a kindness that Mr. Dick’s pride found some difficulty in accepting.