Sir Peter’s irritable method of showing his sympathy only distressed the sweet martyr the more. There were chokings and moist miseries under the pink-and-white canopy. Miss Hardacre’s pretty feet twitched and fidgeted under the clothes, while she half buried her face in the pillow and sobbed with unction. “Bless my soul, Jill, you ain’t a baby no longer—to play at the snivels.” “Oh, Sir Peter, you are brutal!” came the choking reproof from the pillow. “Drat it, lass, what are you blubbering for? There’s no great harm done, eh? Lot will see to the Hardacre honor.” Miss Hardacre’s sobs seemed to grow less hysterical. She thrust a bare arm out of the bed, a wealth of lace hanging about the elbow. Sir Peter, who looked hot, angry, and unhappy, was at some pains to console his daughter. He took her hand and patted it parentally. “There, there, lass; what shall we do for ye, eh?” “Tell Lot—” “Tell Lot. What am I to tell Lot, eh?” “Not to quarrel with poor Richard—” “Damn the lad, Jilian, don’t you take on so. Richard Jeffray’s a little gentleman, and I’ll take my immortal oath that it was all that old she-dog’s doing. Lot is for riding to Rodenham to demand an explanation.” Miss Hardacre pressed her father’s hand and mopped her eyes with her lace handkerchief. Her bones showed somewhat at the base of her neck, and she looked less plump when unadorned. “La, Sir Peter, I am very miserable,” she whimpered. “Richard and I were so happy together last night. Why should that old woman try to spoil our happiness? It was cruel of her, sir, to bring that painter fellow to Hardacre. Such an old affair, too; I was only a silly child then.” Sir Peter swore, and fumbled for his snuffbox. “Don’t you eat your heart out, Jill,” he said; “Lot shall see to it. Richard Jeffray shall prove that he is a gentleman.” Miss Hardacre started up in bed upon her elbow, and held out an appealing hand towards her father. “Don’t let there be any quarrelling; I couldn’t bear to think—” “There, there,” interposed the baronet, with a sniff; “what a tender goose it is! You leave it to me, Jill. We will see that you are treated like a lady.” Sir Peter kissed his daughter, and trudged downstairs, blowing his nose. He found Lot in the dining-room with his feet propped against one of the carved jambs of the fireplace, a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and his rather bleary eyes scanning the pages of a gazette. Lot dropped his feet and swung round in his chair as his father entered, took his pipe from his mouth, and grinned. “How’s the angelic Jill?” he asked, laconically. “Damned vaporish, sir. Hopes you won’t hurt the poor lad. ’Twould break her heart to think of your drawing your sword on him.” Lot laughed and knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe.