At Hardacre the red may and the laburnum’s gold shone out from dewy depths of green. The white may and the mountain-ash were covered as with driven snow. In the park the chestnuts stood like huge green pinnacles crocketed with ivory and coral. Copper beeches gleamed in the sun. Peonies and poppies were in flower below the terrace, and the walls of the old house itself were red with a hundred roses. As before, Jilian received Richard in the red parlor, dressed in her best silks and damasks, and looking more the great lady now that her pride had entered zealously into the play. Her complexion appeared to have improved under the arts of the toilet, but the scars and the seams could not be hid. She had made her father and Lancelot promise that they would leave Jeffray to her devices that day. She desired to treat with him at her own discretion, and to leave male blusterings and high-handedness to the future. Jilian rose from her chair when Richard was announced, swept him a fine courtesy, and then seated herself on a settle by the harpsichord. She noticed that the man looked sad and sullen, stiff and constrained, with no brightening of the eyes. He stood before her with his hat under his arm, fingering the silver buttons on his coat, and staring at her in melancholy silence. He was thinking how strange and elusive a thing was personality, in that a peevish and swarthy face should have changed the temper of his life within three months. “You have sent for me,” he said, quietly. The crude formality of these opening words enlightened Miss Hardacre as to the sentiments she might find in him. His face was firm and immobile as marble, and an extreme and studied dignity chastened his habitual and good-natured grace. “Yes, I have sent for you, Richard,” she said, eying him critically. “It is time that I received some consideration at your hands.” Jeffray flushed slightly and bowed to her. For the moment there was an uncomfortable and unnerving pause. Jilian was playing irritably with her fan, an indescribable expression of restrained impatience on her face. “Well, sir, have you nothing to say for yourself?” Jeffray appeared to straighten his body, brace back his shoulders for the inevitable confession. He looked straight at Jilian, as though compelling himself to the uttermost candor. “I have something to tell you, Jilian,” he said. Miss Hardacre was alert on the instant, an unenviable glint in her eyes, one satin slipper tapping on the floor. “Ah, yes, Richard, I know quite well what you are going to say to me. And so you think, sir, that you can toss me aside like a soiled shoe!” A shadow as of pain passed across Jeffray’s face. “Jilian! Believe me, it is no easy thing for me to speak of what has been working in my mind.” The lady tossed her head, sneered till her teeth showed, and then broke out into a titter. “And so, Richard, you find that you have been mistaken.” “That is the truth, Jilian.”