Jeffray, who had never grasped the full significance of the scene in the great hall at Hardacre, smiled at the painter as he filled his pipe.
“I am in an utter fog, Dick,” he said; “what made Miss Jilian faint, and what the devil were you and Lot quarrelling about as though there had been some old feud between you. You painted Sir Peter’s portrait once, eh?”
“Paint it, sir? I should think I did paint it,” quoth Wilson, savagely; “and had I not been an unplucked fool I should never have gone to that ball to-night. A pretty stew I’ve brewed for you, Richard. It was all that old woman’s doing. Damme, sir, why did I listen to her palaver!”
The painter’s red face was a study in shame, wrath, and irritable contrition. His pipe spluttered as though to be in sympathy with its master’s temper. Jeffray, still mystified, could not help a smile at Wilson’s distress.
“What made Miss Hardacre faint, Dick?” he asked, in all innocence.
“What made her faint, sir!”
“To be sure.”
“My accursed face, Richard Jeffray. I was mad enough to think of marrying her ten years ago.”
Jeffray, who was in the act of lighting his pipe, dropped the lighted spill upon the floor and sat staring open-mouthed at Wilson.
“What!” he said.