Miss Hardacre simpered, blushed prettily, and glanced at Richard. The lad read her inclination on the instant, and helped her to dismount. She pressed his hand kindly, her gray eyes holding his a moment with a look that did not lack for eloquence.
“Hold there; what a deuced ass I am,” quoth Mr. Lot, who had rolled out of the saddle and was thumping his manly chest. “Here’s a certain precious document buttoned up in my breast-pocket. We are giving a masked ball next week at Hardacre. Quite a gorgeous affair, and Sir Peter thought he’d send the dowager a state summons, just to show there is no ill-feeling. Of course you’ll come, cousin.”
Mr. Lot drew a sealed letter from his pocket, and handed it to Richard with a mock bow.
“Let old Gladden give it to her in state,” he said, with a wink; “it will make a better show on a silver salver.”
Richard was looking at Miss Jilian’s pink face and at her pretty figure sheathed in green.
“It is very magnanimous of Sir Peter,” he said, warmly, “to let by-gones be by-gones. I am sure Aunt Letitia is sorry for what happened that evening. She asked me, Jilian, to try and persuade you to forgive her.”
Lancelot Hardacre chuckled.
“Dear old Mohawk,” he said.
“Of course I will forgive her,” quoth Miss Hardacre, sweetly.
“That’s the game, Jill. These women, Richard, are moral prodigies. Deuce take me, Jill, you have the temper of an angel. Don’t I know it.”