The painter had been edging out of the oriel, conceiving that he could best mend the mischief he had done by taking his departure. There must have been some blundering somewhere; either the Lady Letitia had been mistaken in her knowledge of the world, or he had been mistaken in the Lady Letitia. Looking very red and foolish, he was shambling towards the door when footsteps came rattling after him and a hand gripped the collar of the painter’s coat. Wilson, twisting round, saw Mr. Lot Hardacre’s furious red face staring into his. “Richard Wilson, by Heaven!” “Leave go of my collar, sir.” “Deuce take me!” “I came as Richard Jeffray’s friend, sir.” “Curse you, sir, how dared you show your blackguardly face before my sister!” Wilson shook himself free from Lot’s hold. He was no angel in the matter of temper, and his patience was giving way under the strain. “Don’t swear at me, sir,” he said. “If I have been made a fool of I am not going to be kicked for it.” Mr. Lot fired out a number of oaths, and struck Wilson across the face with the back of his open hand. “Go, curse you,” he roared, “or I will have you pitched out by the grooms.” Several of Mr. Lot’s bullies had crowded round, ready to uphold their Achilles in the broil. Dick Wilson, with his red face ablaze and his fists clinched, had fallen back against the wall, and was glaring at Lot Hardacre as though tempted to blood his nose for him then and there. The whole hall was in commotion, many of the guests having turned from the fainting Jilian to watch the quarrel between Mr. Lot and the man in the blue coat. The musicians had stopped playing, and were leaning over the balustrading of the gallery. Sir Peter himself was waddling from the supper-room when Jeffray pushed through the ring of gentlemen about Dick Wilson, and confronted his cousin with flushed face and angry eyes. “You have struck my guest, Lot,” he said, with his hand on his sword. Mr. Hardacre swore like a coal-heaver. “Damnation, cousin, you have insulted us by bringing the fellow here.” “Insulted you, sir?” “And my sister, sir. Deuce take me, Richard Jeffray, if you weren’t my cousin I’d have you and this fellow ducked in the horse-trough. Deuce take me, I would.” There was an enthusiastic murmur of approval from Mr. Lancelot’s friends. Jeffray, utterly mystified, yet thoroughly angered none the less, looked as though ready to take his cousin at his word. Wilson, who had recovered some of his equanimity, stepped forward suddenly and laid his great hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Richard Jeffray,” he said, with a fierce glance at Lot, “let there be no blood-spilling on my account. It is my fault, sir, and this gentleman, your cousin, is justified in construing my presence here into an insult.” Mr. Lot laughed contemptuously. “Lick the dirt, my bully,” he said, “but I must have a word with Cousin Richard.” Wilson interposed between the two, keeping his eyes fixed fiercely on Mr. Hardacre’s face.