Jeffray turned and watched the fire. The light played upon his sallow face and melancholy eyes, his plain black coat, the white ruffles falling down upon the small and refined hands. There was an air of picturesqueness about him that even Aunt Letitia recognized, despite the fact that she preferred a mischievous dandy to a book-befogged scholar. “Richard.” The young man glanced at her inquiringly. “Jilian is thirty-five if she is a day. She pads her figure and dyes her hair. You must be careful, lad. The wench has angled these twenty years. I can make a better match for you than that.” Richard had grown accustomed to the Lady Letitia’s blunt methods of attack. He crossed one leg over the other, and strove to appear at his ease under the old lady’s critical gaze. The dowager was forever hinting at the undesirable nature of an alliance with the Hardacre family. They had birth, certainly, but what were a baronet’s blazonings in aristocratic England? Sir Peter was as poor as a parson; his estates were mortgaged to the last tree. Miss Jilian had been in the market for years, and would bring nothing in the shape of a dowry. The Lady Letitia dilated materially on all these points, as though she were advising her nephew on the purchase of a mansion. “You are very kind, Aunt Letitia,” said the young man, somewhat sullenly, at the end thereof, “but I believe I am capable of choosing myself a wife.” The old lady’s eyes glittered. “So you are going to marry Jilian Hardacre, eh?” “I did not say so.” “Pooh, boy! haven’t I eyes in my head? So she has caught you, has she, the minx? Yet I must confess, nephew, that you do not seem ravished at the thought of embracing such a bride.” Richard drew his knees up and fidgeted in his chair. “Nothing of a serious nature has passed between us,” he said, awkwardly. “Nothing serious, eh? And what do you call ‘serious,’ mon cher? Oglings and letters, gloves, flowers, whisperings in window-seats! Egad, nephew, you will have that gambling oaf of a Lot to deal with. They are mad to marry Jilian, and they want money.” The old lady was quite flushed and eloquent, while Richard’s brown face expressed surprise. He was innocent of worldly guile, nor had he scented such matrimonial subtleties in the Hardacre mansion. “Sir Peter has been very kind to me,” he said. “Noble old gentleman! And he has never been for pushing Miss Jilian into your arms, eh? No, I warrant you, the wench is spry and buxom enough herself. You are not a bad-looking lad, Richard, and you have money.” Jeffray still appeared in a fog. “I do not understand you, aunt,” he said. “Not understand me!” “No.” “Nephew Dick, you are a bigger fool than I thought you were. Come, lad, blab to me; have you offered yourself to the fair Jilian?” Richard blushed, rather prettily for a man, and shook his head. “It has not gone as far as that,” he confessed. “Well, nephew,” she said, brusquely, “are you in love with the lady?” “I thought I was—”