Thus the amiable and generous assling conceived that it would be a gross piece of dishonor on his part were he to treat Miss Jilian Hardacre after the fashion that the Lady Letitia advised. By reason of the extreme delicacy of his sentiment he felt himself impelled rather to exaggerate his courtesies to that young lady, lest he should be charged with trifling with the pure peace of a spinster’s heart. It was not that Richard stood altogether in awe of Cousin Lancelot’s hectoring courage. Jeffray was no coward, though a dreamer. Very possibly his aunt’s cynicisms had operated in a contrary direction to that which the old pharmaceutist had intended. Contradiction begets contrariness; pessimism preens the wings of ardor. It may have been that the lad’s innate sense of chivalry was stirred, and that the lamps in that gorgeous Temple of Beauty flashed a bewitching glamour into Richard’s soul. At all events, he did not slink like a dishonest cur from the maligned maiden’s side. He still continued to kiss her hand, and to admire her profile, a little forcefully perhaps, as she sat and played to him on the harpsichord. One morning, a week or more after his debate with Aunt Letitia, Richard rode over to Hardacre House and dined with Sir Peter, Mr. Lot, and certain of the latter gentleman’s sporting friends. These bluff Sussex boobies could by no means fathom young Jeffray’s character. They took his sensitive reserve for pride, his occasional outbursts of enthusiasm for sentimentality. Among these gentlemen the manly virtues were of the florid order. He who swore most, drank most, debauched most, was voted a fine fellow, a man of blood and bottom. Richard Jeffray, refined, sensitive, and a scholar, shrivelled and shrank before these noisy boors. They did not love him for his melancholy and his silence. “The young fool wanted pap and a flannel binder.” One rosy-gilled quipster made it his especial business that day to point his jokes at Richard’s expense, till he was called to order by Cousin Lot across the table. “Tie up your funny nag, Tom,” quoth Mr. Lancelot, with a glint of the eye, “he’s a stale and dull beast. Dick Jeffray’s too much of a gentleman to straddle your spavined jokes.” Mr. Piggott blinked and guffawed. Next moment he spilled his wine, and squealed as the heel of Mr. Lot’s boot came crunching upon his toe under the table. “Damn it, sir—” “Hallo, was that your foot, Tom? Beg pardon; I’ve got such infernal long legs.”