On the top step of the stair Jeffray halted suddenly. A coach was standing on the gravel drive before the house. On the terrace, not twenty paces away, and walking towards them, came Lot Hardacre with Mr. Robert Beaty at his side. Jeffray turned to Bess, but realized in an instant that all hope of concealment had gone. He pointed her to a stone seat at the end of the terrace, and, gathering his dignity, walked on to meet Lot Hardacre. XXXVIII Jeffray came to a halt before Mr. Lancelot, who flourished his hat, made his cousin a stiff bow, as though he were saluting an acknowledged enemy. “I have the honor, sir, to wish you a very good-morning. I must apologize”—and Mr. Lot chuckled—“for disturbing you with the lady yonder. Mr. Jeffray—Mr. Robert Beaty, permit me to introduce you to each other.” The two gentlemen bowed with the most perfect gravity. Jeffray held himself very upright after the salute, his lips compressed into a straight line. “And for what purpose, gentlemen,” he said, striking straight at the heart of the matter, “am I indebted for the pleasure of your presence here at Rodenham?” Jeffray’s composure did not appear to trouble Mr. Hardacre for a moment. He expected a certain measure of impudence from his cousin, seeing that he had a trim waist and a plumb figure to inspire him. Lot nodded to Mr. Beaty, and signed to him to withdraw. The useful supernumerary received the hint in silence, and strolling away towards the end of the terrace, amused himself by staring hard at Bess. Lot Hardacre drew Sir Peter’s epistle from his pocket, and handed it to Richard with a bow. “Be so good as to read it,” he said, bluntly. Jeffray, imagining its contents, broke the seal and ran his eyes rapidly over Dr. Jessel’s elegant sentences. He colored a little as he read the letter, the declamatory abuse spreading itself before him, the charges of cowardice and dishonor awakening in him a feeling of quiet contempt. Jeffray read the letter through without one single shock of compunction or of shame. He folded it up again composedly, knowing that Lot was watching him, and taking therefore a pride in flouting his cousin’s curiosity. “I am much honored by Sir Peter Hardacre’s bad opinion of me,” he said, tearing the letter in pieces and scattering them upon the stones. Mr. Lot’s red face grew a shade redder. “The devil you are?” he answered. “It is very evident, sir, that a man of low character like myself, is—on your father’s showing—utterly unworthy of approaching Miss Hardacre with a view to matrimony.” “Then, sir, you admit the truth of the charges made in my father’s letter?” Jeffray kept his eyes fixed on his cousin’s red and lowering face. “I recognize none of these charges,” he retorted, calmly, “for the simple reason that I feel myself justified by my own conscience. I do not love your sister, sir, I have no intention of doing her the great wrong of perjuring myself by promising to marry her.”