The Lady Letitia was beaming upon the pair with a mischievous twinkle in her wicked old eyes. She knew that her nephew was watching them from the other side of the hall. But even the dowager was not prepared for the distressing and regrettable scene that was to follow. Miss Hardacre, instead of giving her hand to the painter, shrank back with a shrill scream, and proceeded to faint in the proper pathetic fashion, lying limp and pale in Miss Dorothy Pierpoint’s arms. Poor Wilson stood like an emblem of confusion, nodding his heavy head, and staring first at the unconscious Jilian and then at the Lady Letitia. There was much stir and bustle at the upper end of the hall. Old ladies began to crowd in sympathetic curiosity towards the oriel, with bobbing feathers and inquisitive noses.
“Poor dear Miss Hardacre has fainted.”
“Dear, dear, the room is uncommonly hot to be sure.”
“Will some one give her my smelling-salts?”
“Dear me, sir”—this from a thin dame to Mr. Wilson, who was pushing through the press—“do you know that you are trampling on my gown?”
The painter had been edging out of the oriel, conceiving that he could best mend the mischief he had done by taking his departure. There must have been some blundering somewhere; either the Lady Letitia had been mistaken in her knowledge of the world, or he had been mistaken in the Lady Letitia. Looking very red and foolish, he was shambling towards the door when footsteps came rattling after him and a hand gripped the collar of the painter’s coat.
Wilson, twisting round, saw Mr. Lot Hardacre’s furious red face staring into his.
“Richard Wilson, by Heaven!”
“Leave go of my collar, sir.”
“Deuce take me!”