Mr. Lot roared over his own facetiousness, while Richard stood beside Miss Jilian’s gray mare and pressed the young lady’s hand.
“I should have been at Hardacre before this,” he said, blushing, “but Surgeon Stott ordered me to bide quiet.”
There was a look of delicious anxiety in Miss Hardacre’s eyes.
“Are you sure you ought to be up and about, Richard?” she asked.
“There is nothing much amiss with me,” he answered, looking up at her shyly. “Won’t you dismount and come into the house? I will call Gladden and have your horses taken.”
Mr. Lot winked and inclined his head knowingly in the direction of the house.
“Your revered relative. I am ready to make peace though she did send me down to supper with the ugliest girl this side of Lewes. It’s uncommon hot to-day. What do you say, Jill? Shall we tumble in and have a glass of wine and a chat with the old lady?”
Miss Hardacre simpered, blushed prettily, and glanced at Richard. The lad read her inclination on the instant, and helped her to dismount. She pressed his hand kindly, her gray eyes holding his a moment with a look that did not lack for eloquence.
“Hold there; what a deuced ass I am,” quoth Mr. Lot, who had rolled out of the saddle and was thumping his manly chest. “Here’s a certain precious document buttoned up in my breast-pocket. We are giving a masked ball next week at Hardacre. Quite a gorgeous affair, and Sir Peter thought he’d send the dowager a state summons, just to show there is no ill-feeling. Of course you’ll come, cousin.”
Mr. Lot drew a sealed letter from his pocket, and handed it to Richard with a mock bow.
“Let old Gladden give it to her in state,” he said, with a wink; “it will make a better show on a silver salver.”
Richard was looking at Miss Jilian’s pink face and at her pretty figure sheathed in green.
“It is very magnanimous of Sir Peter,” he said, warmly, “to let by-gones be by-gones. I am sure Aunt Letitia is sorry for what happened that evening. She asked me, Jilian, to try and persuade you to forgive her.”
“Of course I will forgive her,” quoth Miss Hardacre, sweetly.
“That’s the game, Jill. These women, Richard, are moral prodigies. Deuce take me, Jill, you have the temper of an angel. Don’t I know it.”