“And do you think, sir, that Richard Wilson will run away? No, no. I tell you I will go down and take a room at the inn, and if Mr. Hardacre wants me he will find me there. I am ready to make him and his sister a handsome apology, Richard, for he is in the right and I am in the wrong. If he will not take my apology, sir, then he must put a bullet into me to satisfy his sister’s honor. It was my fault, Richard, for being such a damned egregious fool. Perhaps I can mend the quarrel for you, and I am not going to shirk the responsibility.”
Jeffray could make no impression upon the painter, who was as stubborn as any Sussex boor in his determination to quit the house.
“Well, Dick,” he said, as he lighted the painter to his room, “you can go down to the Wheat Sheaf to-morrow and put up there till the quarrel blows over.”
Wilson shook his head as he stood to say good-night to Jeffray on the landing.
“No, sir,” he said, “the quarrel has been of my making, and even if the lady forgives you for being my friend, it would not please her to know that I was still at Rodenham.”
“But we are not betrothed yet,” Jeffray argued.
“If you love her, sir, I presume this idle affair will make no change in your affection. There was nothing to shame her so far as I was concerned, and to be sure she is a little old for you, but then—”
Wilson hesitated suddenly, screwed up his eyes, and looked at the lad with critical curiosity. It had not occurred to him before that there was some disparity between their years. He had been so immersed also in Miss Hardacre’s past that he had not given much thought to the present.
“I suppose you like her, lad, eh?”
“She has been very kind to me, Dick.”