“We are to wear masks, eh?”
“You are not ashamed of your own face, Dick?”
“It is ugly enough, to be sure, sir. A piece of black velvet or crape would look much prettier.”
The same evening, while Jeffray was sorting some of his curios in the library, the Lady Letitia catechised Richard Wilson in the parlor on the subject of the Hardacre ball. She was instructing her dear painter in the mysteries of piquet, listening the while to his droll tales with a delight that would have filled Dr. Sugg with scholarly contempt. Wilson, palpably disconcerted, but not desiring to pique the old lady, had put forward much the same excuses as he had made to Mr. Richard. The Lady Letitia, however, refused to listen to his self-depreciation. She even pretended to be incensed with poor Wilson for holding so humble an opinion of his own powers to please.
“Why, sir,” she exclaimed, “you are far too modest a creature to succeed in this world. People are only too ready to take one at one’s own estimate, if it happens to be a humble one. Remember, sir, that you must expect no magnanimity from your fellow-men; genius is always jeered at by the crawling cleverness of the world. Therefore, stand up for yourself, sir, and let men know that you are better than they.”
Poor Wilson fidgeted in his chair, and almost regretted that the dowager had conceived so good an opinion of him.
“And do you think, madam,” he asked, bluntly, “that they want a poor beggar of a painter at Hardacre House?”
The Lady Letitia rustled haughtily in her chair.
“I should like to know, sir,” she said, “what house is not honored by the presence of genius.”
“You are very kind, madam, I am sure.”