She bore it for a moment or two, then hid her face on his shoulder.
“Are you pleased, papa?” she said, in a low voice.
“Pleased?” he echoed, and there was a strange ring in his grave voice, a vague anxiety. “Yes, yes—that is, if you are pleased. It is for you to decide, my child. I have said all along, I have told him repeatedly, that not by word or look would I seek to influence you. If I have, it has been unconsciously.”
“No, dear,” she murmured. “And you have not. It is of my own free will—and you are pleased? Tell me, papa.”
She seemed to crave a word of approval or satisfaction from him.
“Of course I am pleased,” he said, gravely. “Bartley—by the way, you must not call him Mr. Bradstone any more—Bartley is a good fellow. I have always said so, and though you might have done better, as the cant of the world goes, he is a wealthy man, a very wealthy man, I think, and that means so much now, Olivia.”
And he stifled a sigh.
“Yes,” she said, softly. “I know that, and Mr. Brad—Bartley”—the name seemed to leave her lips awkwardly—“is generous.”
“I think so, I think so, I have always said so,” he assented, as if he were eager to emphasize the good points of his future son-in-law. “Did he speak to you of money?” he said, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes,” she replied. “He told me that I could have as much as I wanted. That was generous, papa!”