“True, very true, sir,” he said, patiently. “I am afraid I have been misled by your aunt, sir, who professed to know all about the romance. She swore to me, Richard, that it was an affair of the past, and that no people of fashion ever distressed themselves about such things. Why, Richard, she even told me that the Hardacres were ready to welcome me as a friend of yours.”
Jeffray sat up suddenly in his chair, his pale face flushing as the truth appeared.
“Miss Hardacre never knew your name, Dick,” he persisted.
“Deuce take me, sir, she must have known it. Your revered relative herself assured me that there was no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre.”
“Aunt Letitia told you that?”
“Why, at the rout to-night, sir, she came to tell me that Miss Hardacre had been inquiring for me. She made me unmask, sir, marched me up to the girl, shouted out my name, after that—came the deluge.”
Richard twisted in his chair and swore. He understood now how the affair had come about. It had been a carefully spun plot upon the part of the Lady Letitia, and poor Wilson had been duped into lending himself to her plans. Richard realized that the dowager’s excessive graciousness towards the painter had been nothing but diplomatic cunning to lure Dick into the toils.
“I understand it all now, Dick,” he said, rising, and helping himself to another glass of wine.
“That’s more than I can say, sir.”
Jeffray drew himself up as though to surrender the unpleasant truth.