“You are a young greenhorn, my dear Richard,” she said, playing with her great red fan, “and you may regard me, sir, as a fairy godmother sent by Heaven to draw you out of the toils. Come, perceive, sir, I have routed the Amalekites and thrown poison into that sweet spinster’s rouge-pot. I wager, nephew, that Miss Hardacre will be for hating you cordially in a few days if you will only follow my advice.”
But Richard was in no mood to listen to this arch-diplomat’s ingenious proposals. Shorn of his natural passivity, he kindled commendably over the crisis, and paced the floor with all the authority of an admiral stalking his quarter-deck.
“May I suggest to you, madam, that I will permit no further meddling in my affairs?”
“Richard—!”
“What poisonous insinuations you have been pouring into Miss Hardacre’s ears I cannot imagine. You have trifled with my honor, madam, disgraced my hospitality, and shamed me in my own house.”
“Richard Jeffray!”
“Permit me to add, madam, that I will not have my friends slighted and insulted in Rodenham.”
“Heavens, Richard!”
“This is my house, madam. If you do not approve of my tastes and habits you can mend your displeasure by departing.”
The old lady sat and stared at her nephew, nodding her huge “head,” her little eyes twinkling under their bushy brows. She would not have believed that the lad had so much spirit in him. His eyes sparkled, his face had flushed, and he carried himself with an angry stateliness that was worthy of Mr. Garrick.