“I mind Lady Hankinson a-taking of the small-pox, my dear. She was a mighty fine woman in her day, and kept my lord in order with her looks. Well, she had the gentlemen round her like flies at the routs, just as much as ever. She wasn’t quite so smooth and creamy, my dear, but she was a fine lady with as fine a pair of eyes as ever made a man feel hot as a live coal. And she had a figure, too; one of them big, duchessy-looking ladies she was, as would make you think as they’d need extra webbing in their beds.” Jilian smiled more optimistically, and, taking a fan from the table, spread its painted sticks and seemed inclined to rehearse some of her charming affectations. “The small-pox can’t spoil a gentlewoman’s figure, Martha,” she said. “Don’t you fret, my dear. Men like a slim waist and a plump bosom. And there ain’t a lady in Sussex with hair like yours. And your nose is there with a purty eye peeping out like a jewel on either side, and a little red mouth below it as any gentleman would be proud to kiss. Don’t you fret yourself about young Mr. Jeffray, my dear.” And Jilian, finding herself cheered and inspirited by the old woman’s flattering assertions, became ready as we all are to believe those things which are pleasant to the heart. Much the same problem was discussed that night by Sir Peter and Mr. Lancelot as they drank their punch, with the ancestral faces peering down at them gravely from the walls. The light from the candles in their silver stands glimmered on the polished table that shone like brown water. The casements were open, the heavy red curtains undrawn, and a nightingale was singing in the shrubbery below the terrace. The punch-bowl, with its green dragons and blue mandarins, steamed near Sir Peter’s portly paunch. Mr. Lot slouched in his chair as usual, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and a clay pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He smiled very shrewdly at his father from time to time, chuckled, and delivered himself of some forcible and oracular remarks. “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. “I’ll snaffle him, sir,” he said. “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.” “He’s a nice, gentle lad.”