Surgeon Stott’s house stood in one corner of the market-place, beyond the timbered pump-house, where a few old men were basking on the benches. The house was painted white, and had a flight of six red-brick steps leading up to the green front-door. Red-and-white chintz curtains were looped back from the windows, and the window-boxes were filled with flowers. Jeffray walked his horse round the pump-house, and saw that straw had been spread over the brown cobbles to deaden sound. He was on the point of dismounting when the green door opened, and Miss Jilian herself came down the steps, followed by a servant in the Hardacre livery. Jeffray flushed up to the roots of his hair. The lady’s eyes had swept over him, flashing and scintillating with scorn. Instinctively he had raised his hat to her, but there was no flicker of recognition on her face. Strangely enough, Jeffray’s respect for Miss Hardacre deepened of a sudden. He saw her trip round the market-place in her big bonnet, the footman following her, and disappear within the doorway of the Blue Boar, Rookhurst’s most aristocratic inn. Jeffray, sensitive to Miss Hardacre’s scorn, hesitated whether he should dismount and inquire at the house for Mr. Lancelot. In the height of his indecision, the green door opened again, and Surgeon Stott, in blue coat and buckskin breeches, appeared upon the steps. He bowed to Jeffray and lifted his hat. Richard wheeled his horse round close to the footway, and looked earnestly in the surgeon’s face. “Can I speak with you a moment, Stott?” The surgeon’s features relaxed into a kindly smile. He came down the six red steps, and stood on the flagged footway, his fingers playing with the gold seals that reposed upon his white waistcoat. “How is my cousin, Stott. I have ridden over to inquire?” The gentleman in the blue coat half closed his eyes, threw out his stomach, and cleared his throat. “Mr. Hardacre has had a nasty mauling, sir,” he said; “but I have done the best for him.” “Will he recover?” Surgeon Stott glanced searchingly at Jeffray. “The lung was touched, sir, and he was bleeding like a pig when they brought him in here yesterday. It is my opinion, however, that Mr. Hardacre’s vitality will pull him through.” “Thank God,” said the younger man, with genuine and hearty relief. The surgeon’s broad face beamed. He liked Jeffray, and felt that he was sincere in his spirit of regret. “It was a narrow margin, sir,” he said, “another finger’s-breadth, and your sword would have touched the heart. Young blood, Mr. Jeffray, young blood! You gentlemen in the twenties are apt to be hot in the head, and the mischief’s sooner made than mended. I have nothing to do with the quarrel, sir, and I hope the incident will breed no ill-feeling between us.” Jeffray held out his hand to the surgeon.