Miss Hardacre had spent two hours at her toilet that morning, and had warred with nature to the best of her ability. She had crimped her short aureole of hair, daubed her cheeks, salved her lips, and used pearl powder for her neck and arms. She wore a green gown that morning covered with red carnations, a red silk hoop, and a band of black velvet about her throat. In the dusk she might have passed for a comely woman, but the full glare of day dissolved the dream. Jilian chose the red parlor for the receiving of her betrothed, since the coloring of the room was red, damask curtains tempering the white light and diffusing a glow over her face. Seated on a high-backed chair before the harpsichord, she let her fingers idle over the keys, while she listened every now and again for the sound of hoofs on the gravel space before the house. It was a little before noon when she heard the clangor of hoofs passing under the gate-tower into the paved court-yard. To ease her nervousness and the sense of tightness over her heart, she broke into a ditty from the “Beggar’s Opera,” her eyes brightening with the fever of waiting. She heard Lot’s voice rising from the hall below, the sound of footsteps on the stairs, a quiet knocking at the door. The handle rattled. Pushing back the chair, she stood up, trembling, her hands opening and closing, her lips dry. She saw Jeffray standing on the threshold, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other holding the lappet of his coat. “Richard!” Unconsciously, Jilian had put all the strained self-shame of her poor soul into the cry. She took two steps forward, holding out her hands. Jeffray closed the door slowly, like a man seeking to compose his thoughts. He turned and looked at Jilian. Unwittingly, in her agitation, she had taken her stand where a sunbeam slanted full upon her face, disclosing all its seamed and pitted ugliness with a brilliance that was almost brutal. A woman’s eyes are quick in piecing together the emotions on a man’s face. She saw Jeffray start, saw him catch his breath, saw the critical yet instinctive repulsion in his eyes. He appeared to conquer himself by an effort, yet the smile he gave her was soulless and unreal. She said nothing as he came forward, bent, and kissed her hand. “Richard, mon cher, and are you glad to see me?” She spoke very softly to him, as she turned aside and walked a little unsteadily to a settle standing by the harpsichord. Jeffray felt a great flush of shame and a miserable sense of reluctance that made him gauche and clumsy. He followed her as though under compulsion, and sat down beside her on the settle. “Of course I am glad to see you, Jilian,” he said.