“Oh, there’s no use in crying over spilt milk,” responded Bartley Bradstone. “Shall we go in to the ladies now?”
“You go,” said the squire. “I will take a turn on the terrace with Faradeane.”
Bartley Bradstone’s face darkened.
“Oh, very well,” he said, with a curt nod, and left the room.
Olivia looked up from the book she was supposed to be reading as he entered the drawing-room.
“Where are papa and Mr. Faradeane?” she said.
“On the terrace,” he replied, speaking in a low tone, so as not to awaken Miss Amelia, who was sleeping the sleep of the just in an armchair. “He is rather out of sorts to-night.”
She looked at him apprehensively.
“He is in trouble. Has he told you?” she asked, below her breath.
He drew a chair near hers, and sat down, bending close over her, his eyes resting on her lovely face with a hungry and cunning regard.