“We have both of us been fooled by my august relative,” he said. “I must confess to you, Dick, that I have been courting Miss Jilian Hardacre, and that the Lady Letitia is prejudiced against the girl. She has tried before to embroil me with the Hardacres. She persuaded you to go to the ball, Dick, in order to create a scene and prevent my becoming betrothed to the lady.”
Dick Wilson’s face expressed astonished and indescribable distress. He put his pipe aside, rose up stammering and blushing, blundered across to where Jeffray was standing, and looked at him as though ready to weep.
“God bless my soul, Richard,” he said, “I would rather have lost my right hand than that this should have happened.”
“It was no fault of yours, Dick.”
“Good Heavens, sir, how can I express my shame and regret! I wish my ugly carcass had never come within ten miles of this place. I am overwhelmed, sir, overwhelmed. I must leave your house at once.”
Jeffray smiled and laid his hand on the painter’s shoulder.
“It was my aunt’s fault, Dick,” he said, simply, “and we have both been made to dance like a couple of dolls. As for your leaving Rodenham, I shall not hear of it.”
Wilson, still thoroughly ashamed, gripped Jeffray’s hand, and then turned away to blow his nose.
“No, no, sir,” he said, “I have made an infernal mess of your affairs, and I cannot eat your food another day. Egad, though, I was forgetting that Mr. Hardacre may desire to justify his sister’s honor.”
“That is my business, Dick.”