When Jeffray left Hardacre House that afternoon, after enduring a somewhat embarrassing interview with Sir Peter and Mr. Lot, he was filled with mingled feelings of recklessness and shame. He almost detested Jilian for her reproachful bitterness and her threats, forgetting to pity her now that she had shown the will to govern him. Moreover, Lancelot, who had seen his sister in one of the galleries after her meeting with Richard, had treated his cousin with ominous and threatening courtesy. Three months ago Jeffray would have blushed crimson at the thought of wounding the sensibilities of his kinsfolk. Any suggestion of personal dishonor that his conscience might then have flung at him would have brought him to the penitential kissing of Miss Jilian’s hands. Now, the swarthy splendor of a single face had blinded him to all else as a great light blinds the eyes. He hated Sir Peter, he hated Lancelot, he hated his old self, he almost hated Jilian. Was he not to see Bess that very evening? Was not Pevensel before him with all its mystery, its glamour, its romance? But Jeffray did not find Bess in the valley of yews that evening. She had been unable to escape Dan’s vigilance and had bided at home, hoeing the weeds in the garden sullenly. As for Richard, he rode back to Rodenham very sad and weary, and feeling sick and faint as though he had overtaxed his strength. XXIX Surgeon Stott, that blue-coated member of the company of surgeons, pounced upon Jeffray next morning, and delivered a most professional condemnation of his patient’s method of convalescence. “Too much riding—too much riding, sir, eh? Hardacre House yesterday; fourteen miles there and back! Not very gentle exercise, to be sure.” Richard Jeffray had the mopes that morning, and Stott fully believed that he knew the cause thereof. He sniffed, pulled out his gold repeater, and sat with his head cocked on one side as he held Jeffray’s wrist between his thumb and fat, pink fingers. “I am going to order you to The Wells, sir,” he said, bluntly. “The Wells!” “Yes, for the good of both parties. Pardon the suggestion, but ladies need time for proper and reasonable convalescence. Let there be an interlude, Mr. Jeffray; I recommend it as a man of sentiment.” Jeffray caught the surgeon’s meaning, and discovered himself not so very prejudiced against the proposal, in that it offered him time for procrastinating with the future. He had had but little sleep the previous night, with Jilian’s scarred face haunting him and her patheticisms and her sneers ringing changes in his brain. He experienced an almost fierce desire to escape for a while from the importunate responsibilities of the present. “Very probably, Stott, the change would do me good,” he said. “Certainly, sir, certainly; pack your books away, and leave the thinking part of you at home. That is my advice—take it or leave it, as you like.”