“Yes?” she said. “Is my father in the library?” and she half arose, a plain intimation that she should, if Mr. Bradstone would leave her free to, join him.
“Yes, he is in the library; but will you wait a minute, Miss Olivia——”
She sank back, and began putting the music together.
“You can’t guess what we have been talking about, I’ll be bound,” he said, with a feeble attempt at a laugh.
Olivia just frowned at him.
“I haven’t any intention of trying,” she said, not insolently, but with an indifference which was sublime. It made Bartley Bradstone wince—simply wince.
“You’d be surprised if I told you it was—you,” he said.
She looked at him now, a look of calm displeasure and incredulity.
“I should, indeed!” she said.
“But we were,” he continued, trying to smile, and leaning on the piano; “we were talking about you, and have been for some time. I—in fact—don’t be startled, don’t be angry—I went to ask him to—to let me—in fact—I’ve told the squire that I love you, Olivia.”