“Yes—quite.”
“We shall start in an hour or two. We have much to do at Lewes.”
Bess looked at her clothes, her short skirt and green petticoat, and then glanced at Jeffray.
“I have thought of all that,” he said, smiling.
“Ah—”
“You shall look as fine a lady as any in Sussex. Silks and brocades, Bess, you shall have them all.”
In the midst of all the bustle of preparation, a trooper of the Light-Horse Regiment came cantering through the park with a letter for Richard Jeffray tucked under his white belt. Wilson saw the speck of scarlet from the terrace, and, walking down the drive, met the man as he reined up before the iron gates closing the garden. The trooper produced his letter and explained that he had been told, to deliver it into Mr. Jeffray’s hands. Jeffray himself appeared on the terrace at the same moment, and the painter, beckoning to him, turned back with the soldier.
“A letter for you, sir,” he said, as Jeffray came up to them.
The trooper saluted, and delivered the despatch. Jeffray ordered him to ride round to the stable and have his horse watered, and rubbed down with straw.
“From your cornet, I presume?” he asked.