Mr. Lancelot bowed and smiled with some grimness.
“Egad, cousin,” he said, “I am glad to find you in so reasonable a temper. I can tell you, Richard, my blood was up, and when Lot Hardacre is roused—he is a bit of a devil, sir.”
Richard, hot and eager, like the generous fellow he was, to salve the wounded Hardacre pride, held out his hand to Lot with a brave smile.
“Your anger does you honor, Lot,” he said. “Had I such a sister I should be terribly jealous for her.”
Mr. Hardacre glanced at Jeffray’s hand reflectively, and then shook it.
“Deuce take me, Richard,” he said, “I knew you were a lad of the right temper. As for Dick Wilson, I broke his pate once, poor devil, when Jill was a mere bread-and-butter simpleton, and he had the impudence to fall in love with her. A pretty little jest, Richard, nothing more. It was the old lady above, sir, who poisoned the posset.”
Jeffray was sincerely relieved to find Mr. Lancelot mellowing into such a brotherly humor.
“Poor Wilson was as much concerned as I was, Lot,” he said. “The Lady Letitia fibbed him into believing that he could present himself at Hardacre. I knew nothing of the matter till last night. Wilson is staying for a day at the Wheat Sheaf down in the village to offer you his apologies, or honorable satisfaction, should you require it.”
Mr. Lot laughed good-humoredly, and reduced the cock of his sword.
“I don’t want to quarrel with the poor devil, Richard,” he said. “You were both of you lambs sucking sour milk from the old dam above. I only desired, sir, to see justice done to my sister.”