“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. There was nothing in Mr. Hardacre’s manner at first to betray the fact that he carried a possible declaration of war in his pocket. It was his policy to assume with the most glaring good-humor that Richard was thirsting to see Miss Jilian, even though she might appear red and disfigured about the face. “We can’t cool your fever just yet, Richard,” he said, after an exchange of cousinly courtesies. “Poor Jill has had it rather bad, you know, and looks a bit weak about the eyes as yet. But, Lor’, when a young fellow’s in love, a pimple or two makes precious little difference.” Lot showed his teeth, stared, and nudged Jeffray meaningly with his elbow. Their familiarity appeared complete; nevertheless, his cousin did not expand in the sun of Mr. Hardacre’s confidence. There was a compressed look about his mouth, a suggestion of sullenness in his eyes. All these genialities only exaggerated his aversion. He was no longer the lad whom Lot had bullied and teased of old, and his cousin’s loud patronage made his stiffening individuality revolt. His heart was afire for Bess at the moment, and she seized on the pity that should have been Jilian’s. “I am vexed that your sister has been ill,” he said, speaking with sensible effort and with but little flow of feeling.