The elder men had gathered about one of the fires, and were discussing the past hunting season, Squire Rokeley posing as chief mentor and critic. The ladies were bobbing their plumes, smirking and chattering together, while Miss Julia Perkaby, who had been besought by the Lady Letitia with much graciousness to seat herself at the harpsichord, thrilled the assemblage with her rich contralto. Miss Jilian Hardacre had established herself on a causeuse by the wall, with Mr. Richard standing by her, looking aristocratic and even distinguished in his black coat, frilled shirt, knee-breeches and silk stockings. Miss Jilian was a plump and comely woman, with masses of auburn hair decked out with artificial flowers and ribbons, a pair of experienced gray eyes, a full bosom and a simpering red mouth. She wore a white gown flowered with violets, a green hoop, white satin slippers, an abundance of lace, and a chain of garnets about her throat. There were three patches upon her face, one above the delightful dimple on her left cheek, one to the right of the round chin, another above her right eyebrow. But for a slight thinness of the neck, the sternomastoid muscles showing too patently, and some faint wrinkles about the eyes, Miss Jilian contradicted the Lady Letitia’s insinuations very charmingly. Richard, bending over this delightful morsel of old-world perfume and affectation, was unbosoming himself of delicate inquiries as to her health. “I hope you have been afflicted with no more headaches,” he was asking with true lover-like solicitude. “Sir Peter appeared uncommonly distressed about you a week ago.” Miss Jilian’s gray eyes searched Richard’s face suspiciously for the moment. Had that wretch Lot told him the truth about that horrible cosmetic? No. The lad was as ingenuous and sincere as any Galahad. “La, Richard,” she said, fluttering her ivory fan painted with Cupids and peacocks, “it is strange that you should remember the days when I keep my bed.” “Are they not sunless days?” quoth Mr. Richard, with a fine bow. “Oh, Richard, I am sure you are poking fun at me.” “Are you not the Sussex sun, Jilian?” “Oh, cousin, how can you say such things? La, Miss Perkaby is singing; we must cease our chatter.” Miss Hardacre spread her fan and screened the bold mortal from the glow of her luminous countenance. Richard could see a round white chin and a mass of auburn hair. “I would rather hear you talk, Jilian. I cannot think why Aunt Letitia asked the girl to sing. She has a fine voice, though, but—not half so fine as yours.” A gray eye peeped demurely over the ivory screen. “Do you think so, cousin?” “Of course I think so, Jilian.”