The old lady’s eyes glittered, and she looked at her nephew approvingly.
“Yes, a Frenchman, a wonderful fellow, I believe. I will tell Parsons to go at once and find where he lodges.”
“Thanks, madam. I will have a week’s practice with him before I return to Rodenham.”
XXXII
The lilac had fallen and the roses were in bloom when Jeffray took a stately and affectionate leave of the Lady Letitia, and journeyed back to Rodenham with Peter Gladden in his coach and four. The dowager had appeared sincerely sorry at Richard’s departure. He had refused to permit her to repay him the two hundred guineas that she had borrowed at Rodenham; moreover, he had made the old lady several handsome presents, lace and jewelry being still acceptable to the belle of seventy. Day by day the Lady Letitia diligently applauded Jeffray’s strengthening spirit of revolt, trumpeting in his ears the preposterous insolence of Mr. Lancelot’s contempt, and bidding him work out his own salvation. Her only regret appeared to have been that Richard had refused her the joy of choosing him a wife.
Dick Wilson remarked the change in Jeffray when they walked in the garden on the evening of his return. The man’s face and figure appeared to have gained alertness and decision. There was a new suppleness and grace about his carriage that contrasted with the half-slouching and dreamy melancholy that had burdened him before. His eyes were keen and alive to the things about him. He carried his head high, and spoke with more decision than of old.
“I must confess, sir,” said the painter, frankly, “that the air of Tunbridge seems to have suited you.”
Jeffray smiled as they paced the terrace side by side.
“I have been taking fencing lessons, Dick,” he said.
“Fencing lessons, sir?”