“My aunt will be disappointed, sir, if you do not go.” “Disappointed, eh?” “Certainly, Dick; she has taken a great fancy to you.” “We are to wear masks, eh?” “You are not ashamed of your own face, Dick?” “It is ugly enough, to be sure, sir. A piece of black velvet or crape would look much prettier.” The same evening, while Jeffray was sorting some of his curios in the library, the Lady Letitia catechised Richard Wilson in the parlor on the subject of the Hardacre ball. She was instructing her dear painter in the mysteries of piquet, listening the while to his droll tales with a delight that would have filled Dr. Sugg with scholarly contempt. Wilson, palpably disconcerted, but not desiring to pique the old lady, had put forward much the same excuses as he had made to Mr. Richard. The Lady Letitia, however, refused to listen to his self-depreciation. She even pretended to be incensed with poor Wilson for holding so humble an opinion of his own powers to please. “Why, sir,” she exclaimed, “you are far too modest a creature to succeed in this world. People are only too ready to take one at one’s own estimate, if it happens to be a humble one. Remember, sir, that you must expect no magnanimity from your fellow-men; genius is always jeered at by the crawling cleverness of the world. Therefore, stand up for yourself, sir, and let men know that you are better than they.” Poor Wilson fidgeted in his chair, and almost regretted that the dowager had conceived so good an opinion of him. “And do you think, madam,” he asked, bluntly, “that they want a poor beggar of a painter at Hardacre House?” The Lady Letitia rustled haughtily in her chair. “I should like to know, sir,” she said, “what house is not honored by the presence of genius.” “You are very kind, madam, I am sure.” “Why, I mentioned your name to Miss Hardacre herself.” Dick Wilson looked aghast. “You mentioned my name and profession, madam?” “Well, sir, what fault has your superlative modesty to find with me now? Miss Hardacre expressed herself charmed, sir, that you should be present at the ball.” “Charmed!” “La, dear Mr. Wilson, of course I know all about that boyish escapade of yours, but those things are of no account in society. If we modish women were to avoid the men we had once flirted with, why, sir, we could go nowhere. I warrant you Miss Hardacre is a discreet young woman; she has forgotten that little affair years ago. Should she frown on you because of it? The best policy in these things, Mr. Wilson, is to act as if there had never been any harmless little romance at all.” The painter had sat blushing like a boy during this harangue. He fidgeted in his chair, looked at the card-table and at the ceiling. “I suppose this is the fashion, madam, in the genteel world?” he asked. “Of course, sir, of course, and a very sensible fashion to be sure.” “Then you think there is no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre House?”