“I am not frightened, thanks,” said Olivia, coldly.
“You are trembling, then,” he said, with barely suppressed fury.
Olivia looked at him very much as Lord Carfield had looked, and taking her hand from his arm, turned to Miss Amelia. “Are you ready, aunt?” she said, and waited until she came up to her.
Bartley Bradstone bit his lip at this distinct rebuke, and was forced to walk down the room alone.
As he approached the door, chafing with envy and mortification, a lad entered, and, looking round, came up to him with a telegram.
“What’s this?” demanded Bartley Bradstone, roughly.
“A telegram, sir,” the lad said. “The postmaster said I was to bring it here, as it might be important——”
“He is a fool,” said Bartley Bradstone. “Besides, a telegram at this time!”
“I had to ride over with it from Wainford, sir,” said the lad, shyly, “and I didn’t like to come in till the entertainment was over.”
Bartley Bradstone opened the envelope, scowling, and read the telegram. It ran thus: