Sir Peter swore, and fumbled for his snuffbox.
“Don’t you eat your heart out, Jill,” he said; “Lot shall see to it. Richard Jeffray shall prove that he is a gentleman.”
Miss Hardacre started up in bed upon her elbow, and held out an appealing hand towards her father.
“Don’t let there be any quarrelling; I couldn’t bear to think—”
“There, there,” interposed the baronet, with a sniff; “what a tender goose it is! You leave it to me, Jill. We will see that you are treated like a lady.”
Sir Peter kissed his daughter, and trudged downstairs, blowing his nose. He found Lot in the dining-room with his feet propped against one of the carved jambs of the fireplace, a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and his rather bleary eyes scanning the pages of a gazette. Lot dropped his feet and swung round in his chair as his father entered, took his pipe from his mouth, and grinned.
“How’s the angelic Jill?” he asked, laconically.
“Damned vaporish, sir. Hopes you won’t hurt the poor lad. ’Twould break her heart to think of your drawing your sword on him.”
Lot laughed and knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe.
“She’s a clever one, is Jilian,” he said. “Egad, sir, she has given me the wink. Break her sweet heart, the dear, tough wench! I must foot it nobly, sir, before my cousin, the poet, smite my brotherly bussum, and cry, ‘Behold, sir, here lies a brother’s honor.’ Richard’s a sweet, trustful lad. Leave him to me, sir; I’ll see that Jill has her husband.”