“That is true,” assented the squire, as if glad of the excuse so pleasantly offered. “Quite true; these are hard times for us landlords everywhere.”
“Indeed they are,” acquiesced Faradeane.
The squire looked at him.
“Are you one of the unfortunate army of landowners?” he inquired.
Faradeane paused for half a second, then he laughed.
“You forget that I am the landlord of The Dell, and quite half an acre of garden land! And that reminds me that I must be going. Thank you very much, Mr. Vanley.”
The squire shook the strong, shapely hand warmly, and stood for a moment looking after the tall, patrician figure as it made its way with strong, easy stride across the grass; then he went back to the house with a grave, wistful face. Perhaps he was wishing that Heaven had given him such a son as a brother to his precious Olivia; or, perhaps he was thinking of the plantation and the hard times which made the expenditure of the “few hundreds” not only difficult, but impossible.
Olivia was standing at the door, waiting for him.
“You have had a visitor, papa?” she said, quietly, and in the tone one uses when one has rehearsed a speech—almost too careless and indifferent.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “Mr. Faradeane. He has just gone. I am sorry you were not in to see him.”