Meanwhile, Aunt Letitia appeared determined to erase from the minds of the Hardacres the unpleasant memories that her own strategies had created. Her amiability puzzled Mr. Lancelot that afternoon as he walked the terrace with her, and looked down upon the lawns and prim paths beneath, the statuary shining white amid the yews and cedars. The old lady’s eyes dwelt often on Richard and Miss Jilian who were drifting to and fro absorbed in their mutual confidences. From time to time she would scan the park as though watching for some person to appear. Dick Wilson had gone forth sketching to study the effects of light and shade upon the distant summits of the “downs.” The Lady Letitia was eagerly expecting the painter’s return. It would be so interesting to watch his introduction to Miss Hardacre. “Look at those dear innocents,” she said, with a twinkle, to Mr. Lot. “To be frank with you, sir, I was not eager to see my nephew married; early marriages are such lotteries, Mr. Hardacre. But now that I am beginning to see more of your sweet sister, I must confess that I am becoming converted.” Lot Hardacre gave the old lady a queer look. He was no fool was Mr. Lot, and he did not trust the dowager with all the manly innocence of his fox-hunting heart. “I observe, madam,” he said, bluntly, “that you are a sportswoman. You don’t mind confessing when you’re off the scent.” “The truth, sir, is always easily understood,” quoth the dowager, cheerfully. “Egad, you’re right, madam.” “And I shall have much pleasure in attending your father’s ‘rout,’ Mr. Hardacre. Sir Peter has shown a magnanimous spirit; and I trust that a woman of my birth knows how to receive so graceful a pardon.” Mr. Lot grinned. He recalled to mind how his sister had been compelled to weep and threaten hysterics before the baronet could be prevailed upon to include the Rodenham folk among his guests. “Richard was a decent lad, to be sure, but that damned old cat, no, egad, he’d see her hanged before he had her at Hardacre.” It was only after much persuasion that Sir Peter had been brought to see that it would be wiser to appease the old lady than to tempt her malice. “I trust that we have buried the hatchet, madam,” said Mr. Lot, with a bow. “The hatchet, sir!” “You and Sir Peter, madam, had better leave whist alone.” The old lady chuckled as though Mr. Hardacre had delivered himself of an excellent jest. She wagged her head at him, and gave him an arch smile that carried no malice. “You are a wicked fellow, sir,” she said, with a pat of the hand. “I can see that you have been laughing all the time at your father and myself. La, Mr. Hardacre, I can take a joke, to be sure. You are a wicked, sly fellow, sir, and you are no fool, I see that clearly enough.”