Miss Hardacre simpered, blushed prettily, and glanced at Richard. The lad read her inclination on the instant, and helped her to dismount. She pressed his hand kindly, her gray eyes holding his a moment with a look that did not lack for eloquence. “Hold there; what a deuced ass I am,” quoth Mr. Lot, who had rolled out of the saddle and was thumping his manly chest. “Here’s a certain precious document buttoned up in my breast-pocket. We are giving a masked ball next week at Hardacre. Quite a gorgeous affair, and Sir Peter thought he’d send the dowager a state summons, just to show there is no ill-feeling. Of course you’ll come, cousin.” Mr. Lot drew a sealed letter from his pocket, and handed it to Richard with a mock bow. “Let old Gladden give it to her in state,” he said, with a wink; “it will make a better show on a silver salver.” Richard was looking at Miss Jilian’s pink face and at her pretty figure sheathed in green. “It is very magnanimous of Sir Peter,” he said, warmly, “to let by-gones be by-gones. I am sure Aunt Letitia is sorry for what happened that evening. She asked me, Jilian, to try and persuade you to forgive her.” Lancelot Hardacre chuckled. “Dear old Mohawk,” he said. “Of course I will forgive her,” quoth Miss Hardacre, sweetly. “That’s the game, Jill. These women, Richard, are moral prodigies. Deuce take me, Jill, you have the temper of an angel. Don’t I know it.” Miss Hardacre’s gray eyes flashed a curious look at her brother. “Heavens, Lot,” she said, “how you do chatter.” Jeffray had rung the stable-bell, and Peter Gladden and a groom came out to take the horses. Richard ordered the butler to bring cake and wine into the dining-room, and to send the Lady Letitia’s maid to inform her mistress, who was taking her afternoon nap, that Miss Hardacre was in the house. They went into the porch together and through the hall into the wainscoted dining-room, Miss Jilian holding her riding-skirt daintily in either hand, Mr. Lot swinging his velvet cap and whip and grinning affectionately at Richard. The Lady Letitia appeared in due course, as gracious as could be, decked out in a handsome sack, her hair freshly powdered, her mittens on, and her fan swinging at her wrist. She kissed Miss Hardacre on either cheek, squeezed the young lady’s hand, beamed at her nephew, and was very affable to Mr. Lancelot. She had received the invitation to Sir Peter’s ball from Mr. Gladden’s salver, and expressed herself charmed at Sir Peter’s courtesy. After wine had been drunk and cake crumbled, Richard proposed that they should walk out into the garden. The dowager rang for her black mantilla, requested Mr. Lancelot to honor her with his arm, and led the way through the opening upon the terrace. Jilian and Richard lingered behind the Lady Letitia, Miss Hardacre very coy and ready to blush, Richard feeling with some shame that pretty speeches came less glibly from his tongue than they had done of yore.