Jeffray, who had been leaning with one elbow on the window-sill, and drumming on the glass with his fingers, turned suddenly, looking vexed and half ashamed. He had still enough mock pride left in him to resent the steady conviction that his elderly relative had warned him very shrewdly. He had always half despised the worldly old Jezebel, but she seemed to have the laugh of him for the moment. “To tell you the truth, madam,” he said, unbosoming himself with clumsy brusqueness and with an effort, “Jilian has been much disfigured.” The Lady Letitia leaned forward on her stick. “There, there, mon cher Richard, I understand.” “I gave it to her.” “And now you love her no longer, nephew, eh? Do not contradict me, sir, I can see it in every line of your face. Poor boy! poor boy! It is a mercy that you are not married.” Jeffray, who had been writhing and reddening before the old lady’s eyes, started and flashed a questioning look at her as the last words were uttered. “A mercy, madam!” he exclaimed. “Of course, my dear.” Jeffray’s upper lip tightened, and he looked sullen about the eyes. “It was all my fault,” he said. “I suppose I ought to act like a man of honor. I ought to marry her, I know.” The Lady Letitia actually broke out into a merry laugh. Her eyes twinkled, and she tapped on the floor applaudingly with her stick. “Richard, mon cher, when will you learn to put on the breeches?” “Madam!” “Lud, sir, when will you discover that these silly sentiments, these toys of honor, are only idols invented and decorated by us women to delude and impress the callow male. We must get husbands, and keep ’em, if we can. Foh, sir, better marry a red-cheeked, bouncing wench who wants you because you are a man, than a fine spinster who is hunting for a household and for money.” Jeffray, sentimentalist that he was, looked surprised and even shocked. “Why, madam, you are a lady yourself, one of a class, and can you talk like this?” The dowager chuckled with cynical delight. “Come, come, Richard; I have played the game, have I not? I have schemed and plotted, tilted my nose, and rustled my silken skirts. Yes, yes. But I know what it is worth, sir; I know the value of a pawn, a bishop, and a king. I have studied the moves, the openings, the finesse, the checkmate. It is only a game that we polite and religious gamblers cultivate. Do not be deluded, sir. Hearts are not broken at five-and-thirty; they are leather at twenty when the modesty dries up. Do you think that Miss Hardacre would marry you if you were a common attorney or a penniless ensign? No, no. The illusions have gone. It is comfort, carriages, servants, baubles, money for cards. That is her disease, Richard.” Jeffray hung his head and stroked his chin, yet discovered, despite his sensibility, a comforting flavor in the old lady’s words. “It may be so,” he said, with the air of a fatalist.