Bartley Bradstone colored.
“No,” he replied. “I have said nothing to Miss Olivia. I thought it my duty to come to you, her father, first; it’s the proper thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” assented the squire. “Yes—usually, thank you—yes, of course it is the proper thing. But——” He paused. “But I ought to tell you at once that in this matter my daughter will be quite uninfluenced by me—I mean that she will be left to decide for herself completely.”
“Then, if she says ‘Yes,’ I’m to understand that you will not object?” said Bartley Bradstone.
The squire looked up at him with a half sad, half reluctant expression in his eyes.
“Why should I object?” he said, as if to himself. “We have known you for some time, you are a near neighbor, and—I speak frankly, Bradstone—you possess the wealth without which, alas! few marriages can be happy.”
“Yes,” said Bartley Bradstone, and for the first time he drew himself up. “I think I can satisfy you on that point. I think I may say that Olivia will, as my wife, be able to live as comfortably as she has done as your daughter.”
The squire winced at the vulgarity and familiarity of the speech, as he nodded assentingly.
“It is a consideration that has weight with me,” he said. “But I ought to tell you, though you do not need telling, I am sure, that it will not have a feather’s weight with Olivia.”
“Most women like money,” said Bartley Bradstone.