“I don’t know,” replied the squire. “He did not come to bid us good-by; the vessel left suddenly, Lord Carfield says. I only heard of the boy’s departure from Mr. Faradeane——”
Olivia was holding her teacup for some milk, which Bartley Bradstone had brought her, and it slipped suddenly from her fingers, spilling the tea over her pure white frock.
Bartley Bradstone had his handkerchief out, and was on his knees at her side in a moment, but she drew back out of his reach. “It is of no consequence,” she said, calmly.
“I’ll get you another cup. That pretty dress! Won’t you let me wipe it for you?” he pleaded, tenderly.
“No, no, thanks,” she returned in a voice of suppressed irritation. “I will go and change it,” and she moved to the door; but as she did so, Aunt Amelia exclaimed:
“That delightful Mr. Faradeane, now really!” and Olivia paused to gather up some fancy-work from the piano. “He was such a great friend of Bertie’s, was he not? And I don’t wonder. Such a charming man! I really do wish he were a little more—more sociable. You might ask him to dinner again, Edwin.”
The squire rose and shook his head.
“It is no use,” he said, “Mr. Faradeane has plainly indicated his desire to be left alone. I asked him yesterday, and several days before, when I met him out riding. I am afraid he has been, and is, ill.”
Olivia put her hand upon the door, but still waited.
“Oh, I am so sorry! Fancy how dreadful to be ill and all alone in that solitary spot!” said Miss Amelia. “Poor man! I really think you ought to call, Edwin, and you, too, Bartley. I wonder”—with an air of maiden timidity—“if he would think it intrusive or—or pushing, if I sent him some beef tea.”