“And do you not think it a pity, sir, that you did not discover this—some months ago?” Jeffray, hanging his head and looking very miserable, walked to the window and stood staring out of it in silence. The landscape stretched gray and meaningless before his eyes, so hustled was he by his own thoughts. Jilian was watching him with a rapacious air, her painted face looking old and almost shrewish. Truth, like the shield in the fable, bore a different blazoning to these two who studied it from opposing situations. Presently Jeffray turned from the window, walked back into the middle of the room, with the look of a man determined to speak the last word. “It is not easy,” he began, “to confess that one has been mistaken.” “Not easy, Richard, eh?” “My sense of honor—” “Your sense of honor, Richard, compels you to make excuses.” Jeffray colored at the taunt. “Jilian, I have not come to make excuses.” “Ah, no, of course not!” “My conscience will not let me play the hypocrite.” “Your conscience, Richard! Ah, this is beautiful!” It was easy to see that the man’s attitude of tragic self-righteousness roused all the scorn in the woman’s nature. Jeffray did not appear to realize how dishonorable his sentiments were when viewed in the calm light of impartial reason. He was disgustingly confident of his own honor. His smug conceit exasperated the lady. “Richard,” she said, her voice sounding harsh and strained. Jeffray faced her steadily. “You have come to tell me that you are not going to marry me. That is so, is it not?” “I have come to confess that my love is no longer what it was.” “Did I not say so, cousin? What is the use of our clipping and trimming our phrases? To put it bluntly, you are sick of me.” Jeffray regarded her as though trying to read her thoughts. “I can only acknowledge my own guilt,” he said. Miss Hardacre’s mouth gave a vicious twist. “Then I may as well warn you, Richard,” she retorted, “that you must consult Sir Peter in the matter.” “Sir Peter?” “Of course.” Richard gave a frank shrug of the shoulders. “What has Sir Peter to do with our marriage?” he said. “It is no business compact. I cannot promise things to your father which I cannot promise here to you.” Such dignified innocence became more exasperating each moment to the lady by the harpsichord. Yet she still smiled scornfully at her betrothed as though her superior knowledge of the world justified her in despising him. “You misunderstand the whole matter, Richard,” she said. “You have promised to marry me, and you gained my father’s consent to the marriage. His authority must be consulted, though I can assure you, sir, he is not the man to suffer his daughter’s affections to be trifled with. I am a weak woman, Richard, and my honor, since you seem so careless of it, had better remain in my father’s keeping.”