Jeffray, who had never grasped the full significance of the scene in the great hall at Hardacre, smiled at the painter as he filled his pipe. “I am in an utter fog, Dick,” he said; “what made Miss Jilian faint, and what the devil were you and Lot quarrelling about as though there had been some old feud between you. You painted Sir Peter’s portrait once, eh?” “Paint it, sir? I should think I did paint it,” quoth Wilson, savagely; “and had I not been an unplucked fool I should never have gone to that ball to-night. A pretty stew I’ve brewed for you, Richard. It was all that old woman’s doing. Damme, sir, why did I listen to her palaver!” The painter’s red face was a study in shame, wrath, and irritable contrition. His pipe spluttered as though to be in sympathy with its master’s temper. Jeffray, still mystified, could not help a smile at Wilson’s distress. “What made Miss Hardacre faint, Dick?” he asked, in all innocence. “What made her faint, sir!” “To be sure.” “My accursed face, Richard Jeffray. I was mad enough to think of marrying her ten years ago.” Jeffray, who was in the act of lighting his pipe, dropped the lighted spill upon the floor and sat staring open-mouthed at Wilson. “What!” he said. “You may well look blank, sir. It is how Dick Wilson is feeling. Upon my soul, lad, I think Lot Hardacre did well when he slapped my silly face.” Jeffray, who had recovered himself, put his foot upon the burning spill, took another from the pot, held it over the fire, and lit his pipe. He puffed steadily for some moments, lying back in his chair with a peculiar calmness upon his face, and then turned again to Wilson. “Tell me all about it, Dick,” he said. “Shall I?” “It is better that I should know.” Wilson settled himself irritably in his chair and stared at the fire. “Ten years ago,” he said, “when I was a better-looking fellow than I am now, and when I was making money with my portraits, I painted Sir Peter Hardacre and his daughter. They had a house in town, sir, then, and Miss Jilian was as pretty a young lady as ever charmed the beaux of St. James’s. Well, sir, I fell in love with the girl while I was painting her, and a mighty long time I took over that picture, and a mighty fine portrait I thought it. ‘Did not Hogarth marry old Sir James Thornhill’s daughter,’ said I, ‘and why should I not win this goddess myself?’ She bribed her maid, sir, and used to come to my studio to see me paint. I don’t think it was quite honorable of me, Richard Jeffray, I know now that it was not wise. Well, some old hag who had a grudge against Sir Peter got hold of our secret, and put it about town that there was an intrigue between us. Egad, sir, what an infernal pother there was! Sir Peter sent his own son and some young bullies to bludgeon me in my own studio. I still have the mark of one of their sticks on my asinine pate. It was a bad business, Richard, though we were both of us innocent as lambs.”