Jeffray crushed his hat between his hands, restrained himself by a great effort, and bowed to her with all the dignity he could command.
“I think that I had better take my leave of you,” he said, coldly.
“Ah, do so, by all means. Your righteous self-conceit sickens me.”
“Madam, I came to try and tell you the truth as courteously as I could.”
Miss Hardacre pointed him to the door.
“Tell me no more lies,” she said; “as for your conscience—I snap my fingers at it.”
Jeffray, mortified and not sorry to escape, bowed once more to the lady, and left her to her tears, her smelling-salts, and her brother.
XXXIV
The evening of the day that Jeffray rode to break his betrothal with Miss Hardacre, Isaac Grimshaw came limping across from his cottage to find Dan plastering new tiles on the roof of his small byre. Isaac stood at the foot of the ladder, squinting up at his son against the evening sunlight, his white hair shining under his hat.
Dan pressed a tile home upon its bed of plaster, and, laying his trowel on the roof, looked down at his father.