The Lady Letitia, however, saw nothing inevitable in the marriage. She cackled with the greatest good humor, and tapped Jeffray’s knee with the point of her stick. “Dear Lord, Richard, don’t pull such a very long face. Do you think you are the first man who has grown tired of the angel? There is not a more scheming, artful, intrigue-eaten veteran in the county. Why should you marry her because she wants your money? As for a betrothal, nephew, sensible people ought to regard it as a state trial, a bargain that either may break with honor, when it seems likely to prove a bad one. Let the scandal-mongers go hang. When you have money, Richard, you need not be afraid of people’s tongues. Cock your hat at them all, step out and swagger. And how does the noble Lancelot behave to you, sir?” Jeffray’s mouth hardened as he remembered his cousin’s red face and overbearing manner. The Lady Letitia had struck the right chord. The look on her nephew’s face applauded her diplomacy. “Do not be browbeaten by that oaf, Richard,” she continued, with much spirit. “Lot Hardacre is a fine fellow to set himself up as a judge of honor. Why, he has jilted three girls to my knowledge, and is content now to amuse himself with farmers’ daughters, without the burdens of matrimony. Stand up to him, nephew; rattle your sword. The more you show your teeth in this world the better will people respect you. The Christian fool is a poor creature. He gets an abundance of kicks, sir, and, by Heaven! he deserves them. Ah, here is my dear friend, Dean Stubbs. Nephew, you must stay and drink tea with us, and take a hand at cards.” XXXI The following morning a letter came to Richard from Hardacre, a carefully sealed epistle smelling strangely of musk. He stared at it like a spendthrift eying an unpayable bill, opened the letter as he sipped his chocolate, spread it on the tray before him, and read it grudgingly at his leisure. He was no longer moved to kiss the place where Miss Jilian’s hand had rested. The sentimental infatuation had withered in a week. It had never possessed roots in the natural soil. The letter ran: “MY DEAR RICHARD,—I was a little surprised to receive the note that informed me that you were proceeding to Tunbridge Wells for your health. Was it shame or delicacy of feeling that prevented you from taking leave of me in person? You must remember how little sympathy you showed me when we first met after my illness. I am ready to pardon you, however, and shall expect more sensibility in you in the future.