Miss Hardacre’s fingers were crushing her handkerchief into a ball. The interview was proving too bitter to her, and she was beginning to revolt against Jeffray’s apathy. Why did he not try to comfort her? She would never have believed that Richard had so hard a heart. “You are very cold, cousin,” she said. Jeffray blushed, and looked almost afraid to meet her eyes. “Of course, men change. They only care for a pretty face, and love only so long as the woman pleases them. Is not that so, Richard?” “For God’s sake, Jilian, don’t talk like this—” “Yes, yes, that is very well, but can I—a woman—help seeing the truth?” Jeffray drew a deep breath and leaned back against the harpsichord. “I know it is all my fault,” he said, “and I am very miserable over what has happened. Leave me alone a moment, and let me take it all in. I am just as unhappy as you are, Jilian; it is no use my pretending that I do not see the change in you.” Jeffray, full of the egotism of a man in love, could not have spoken more biting words. Jilian started as though he had struck her, rose up from the settle with a sudden dignity and restraint that made Richard appear wholly in the wrong. She made him a slight courtesy, turned on her heel, and walked towards the door. “To be sure, you must think it over, cousin,” she said, with a vicious sneer; “remember that I am ugly, and remember also that you have told me so.” “Jilian!” “Think it over, sir, but do not imagine that I am going to be thrown aside like a soiled shoe. I have more pride, more conceit, than that. No, I have no wish to have all the women jeering and laughing behind my back. You understand me, Richard, eh? Very good. Think it over, by all means, but remember that we are betrothed.” “I have not forgotten it, Jilian.” “Very good, cousin. I will excuse you from the discomfort of studying my ugliness any further to-day. Sir Peter and Lot will be glad to see you to dinner.”