Poor Wilson fidgeted in his chair, and almost regretted that the dowager had conceived so good an opinion of him.
“And do you think, madam,” he asked, bluntly, “that they want a poor beggar of a painter at Hardacre House?”
The Lady Letitia rustled haughtily in her chair.
“I should like to know, sir,” she said, “what house is not honored by the presence of genius.”
“Why, I mentioned your name to Miss Hardacre herself.”
“You mentioned my name and profession, madam?”
“Well, sir, what fault has your superlative modesty to find with me now? Miss Hardacre expressed herself charmed, sir, that you should be present at the ball.”
“La, dear Mr. Wilson, of course I know all about that boyish escapade of yours, but those things are of no account in society. If we modish women were to avoid the men we had once flirted with, why, sir, we could go nowhere. I warrant you Miss Hardacre is a discreet young woman; she has forgotten that little affair years ago. Should she frown on you because of it? The best policy in these things, Mr. Wilson, is to act as if there had never been any harmless little romance at all.”
The painter had sat blushing like a boy during this harangue. He fidgeted in his chair, looked at the card-table and at the ceiling.
“I suppose this is the fashion, madam, in the genteel world?” he asked.
“Of course, sir, of course, and a very sensible fashion to be sure.”
“Then you think there is no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre House?”
“Mr. Wilson, have I had any experience of the world?”
“And there should be one very good reason, sir,” she said, coquettishly, “why you should humor me in the matter.”
“I like to be amused, sir, by the wit and wisdom of a man of the world. These Sussex folk are terribly dull. I shall die of ennui there, unless—”
“You take pity on an old woman, and put your most delightful tongue at her service.”
Thus, thanks to the Lady Letitia’s diplomacy, Richard Jeffray was compelled to ransack his dead father’s wardrobe in order to provide his friend with fitting clothes for the occasion. He discovered a sky-blue silk coat that fitted Wilson very respectably. He also provided the painter with a bag-wig, a pair of black silk breeches, white stockings, a richly frilled shirt, a lace cravat, and an old court-sword. The painter made by no means a poor figure as he stood before the fire in Rodenham hall, waiting for the Lady Letitia to descend to the coach. Certainly the muscularity of his calves was too much in evidence; his back resembled a barn door, and his fiery face seemed in need of powder. Richard Wilson looked a gentleman of solidity and distinction, so long as he kept his feet still and did not get into difficulties with his sword. His dignity in such finery was intended to be of the statuesque order. Set him in motion, and his lumbering limbs moved with the clumsy stiltedness of a mechanical figure.