Faradeane hesitated; but Bertie, eager to snatch a few more minutes of his idol’s society, pressed his arm.
“Come on,” he said. “The squire will be pleased, I know.”
Olivia stood silent, her eyes fixed dreamily on the moonlit scene.
“Must we go back in those stuffy carriages,” she said, in a low voice. “Can we not walk, aunt?”
“Certainly you may,” replied Miss Amelia. “But I think I will ride; these night dews are rather treacherous, I’m sure,” and she dropped her head on her shoulder, and simpered, “Mr. Bradstone will be kind enough to take care of me.”
Bartley Bradstone’s face would have supplied a fine study for a painter of character, but he was helpless; and with a stifled oath, gave her his arm.
The two Penstone girls, of course, drew back, and declined, with distinct emphasis, the mere idea of riding.
“All right, then,” said Bertie. “Come on!” and the young people set out.
Annie and Mary, in their eagerness to vent their amazement and pent-up enthusiasm, caught him timidly, but effectually, by either arm, and began at once:
“Oh, Lord Granville, did you—now, did you ever hear anything like it? Wasn’t it simply wonderful?” etc., and poor Bertie, closely arrested, saw his goddess walk on with Faradeane.