“Egad, cousin,” he said, with a laugh, “so the forester broke your pate for you, deuce take his insolence! Ha, Jill, how do you like our Richard in bandages? You should wear a mob-cap, cousin. How’s the dowager? Got over the mumps yet?”
Mr. Lot roared over his own facetiousness, while Richard stood beside Miss Jilian’s gray mare and pressed the young lady’s hand.
“I should have been at Hardacre before this,” he said, blushing, “but Surgeon Stott ordered me to bide quiet.”
There was a look of delicious anxiety in Miss Hardacre’s eyes.
“Are you sure you ought to be up and about, Richard?” she asked.
“There is nothing much amiss with me,” he answered, looking up at her shyly. “Won’t you dismount and come into the house? I will call Gladden and have your horses taken.”
Mr. Lot winked and inclined his head knowingly in the direction of the house.
“Has she got her war-paint on, Richard?”
“Who?”
“Your revered relative. I am ready to make peace though she did send me down to supper with the ugliest girl this side of Lewes. It’s uncommon hot to-day. What do you say, Jill? Shall we tumble in and have a glass of wine and a chat with the old lady?”