Richard appeared to rouse himself of a sudden. He turned to his aunt and frankly desired her to translate to him the meaning of the strange scene he had witnessed at Hardacre. The Lady Letitia appeared deaf for a moment amid the jangling of the harness and the laboring of the wheels. When she was compelled at last to understand the nature of her nephew’s question, she shrugged her shoulders and wrapped her shawl closer about her neck. “Don’t ask me, Richard,” she said; “you had better request Mr. Wilson to give you an explanation before you go to bed.” The painter groaned in spirit and looked pathetically at the old lady. “I am sure, madam,” he said, humbly, “it would have been better if I had not taken your advice.” “Advice! More mysterious,” quoth Jeffray, losing patience. The Lady Letitia rustled her silks in the corner; her eyes were fixed upon Wilson’s face, a lugubrious patch of white in the gloom of the coach. “Sir,” she said, “I am beginning to think that you have not been quite frank with me. There must have been more in the affair than you have confessed. I never saw a wench so flustered in my life.” Wilson shrugged his shoulders in despair. “I will endeavor to explain the matter to Mr. Jeffray,” he said, ruefully; “to be sure I have made a deuced fine fool of myself, and shamed my own friend’s hospitality. You will do me justice, madam, by remembering that I had no liking to attend this ball.” “Mr. Wilson,” quoth the dowager, frigidly, “it is clear that I never knew the true state of the case.” “Perhaps not, madam; perhaps not.” Meanwhile Richard laid his hand on the painter’s knee. “Don’t vex yourself, Dick,” he said, beginning to suspect the Lady Letitia’s diplomacies, “we will talk it over together when we get home.” When the coach drew up before the priory, Richard gave his aunt his arm up the steps into the hall. Very much upon her dignity, she gave Mr. Wilson and her nephew a very stately courtesy, and swept away up the great staircase to her chamber. The atmosphere seemed to lighten somewhat on the dowager’s departure. Richard ordered Gladden to light the candles in the library where a fire was still burning, and to bring up a bottle of port from the cellar. He laid his hand on Wilson’s shoulder, who was pacing restlessly up and down the hall, his sword clapping to and fro against his muscular calves. They went into the library together, took pipes and the Virginia-box from the cupboard beside the chimney, and settled themselves before the fire. Peter Gladden came in with an uncorked bottle and glasses upon a tray. Wilson rose up, unbuckled his sword with a prodigious sigh, drank down a bumper, and waited till the butler had closed the door. “Richard Jeffray,” he said, with more vivacity, as though eager to unburden his soul now that they were alone, “I can’t tell you, sir, what a sorry fool I feel after this night’s business.”