“Is it necessary, madam?” “Heavens, Mr. Wilson, you cannot be presented to the lady of the house in blinkers! Ah, that is well. Put it in your pocket, sir. And now give me your arm.” Miss Jilian was sitting on one of the benches in the great oriel that bayed out from the right of the raised dais. The perpendicular window itself was filled with white glass, banded across the centre with the arms of the Hardacres, gules, a clarion argent, and the shields of certain families with whom they had been connected by marriage. Miss Hardacre, who had unmasked, was talking to one of Squire Pierpoint’s daughters when the Lady Letitia came strutting across the hall on Mr. Richard Wilson’s arm. The painter looked red and overheated, nor was his composure under the eyes of the assemblage bettered by his nearly tripping over his sword. Jilian had not noticed the dowager’s approach, so absorbed was she in confiding to Miss Dorothy Pierpoint some very feminine secrets concerning Richard Jeffray. There was a smile of beautiful amiability on the Lady Letitia’s face as she bore down like destiny upon the unconscious maiden. “My dear Miss Hardacre—” Jilian’s gray eyes flashed up to find the old lady standing before her with a fat man in a blue coat at her side. “Permit me, my dear, to present to you my nephew’s friend, Mr. Richard Wilson, the distinguished portrait-painter.” Poor Dick proceeded to make his most professional and graceful bow. Miss Hardacre, who had gone very white under her delicate rouging, sat staring at the painter’s face as though it were possessed of the grim magic of the Medusa’s. “Richard Wilson!” Miss Hardacre stammered out the words, striving with all her might and main to smile. “Surely you remember me, madam?” quoth Mr. Dick, clumsily, looking about as great a fool as a man could look in such a predicament. The Lady Letitia was beaming upon the pair with a mischievous twinkle in her wicked old eyes. She knew that her nephew was watching them from the other side of the hall. But even the dowager was not prepared for the distressing and regrettable scene that was to follow. Miss Hardacre, instead of giving her hand to the painter, shrank back with a shrill scream, and proceeded to faint in the proper pathetic fashion, lying limp and pale in Miss Dorothy Pierpoint’s arms. Poor Wilson stood like an emblem of confusion, nodding his heavy head, and staring first at the unconscious Jilian and then at the Lady Letitia. There was much stir and bustle at the upper end of the hall. Old ladies began to crowd in sympathetic curiosity towards the oriel, with bobbing feathers and inquisitive noses. “Poor dear Miss Hardacre has fainted.” “Dear, dear, the room is uncommonly hot to be sure.” “Will some one give her my smelling-salts?” “Dear me, sir”—this from a thin dame to Mr. Wilson, who was pushing through the press—“do you know that you are trampling on my gown?”