Her head drooped lower and lower, then she raised it slowly, and waited for him to continue, for she felt that more was coming.
“Why should we wait?” he continued, insidiously. “I hate long engagements; and the sooner we are married the sooner will the squire be rid of this trouble of his. Will you marry me in a fortnight, Olivia?”
She started, and every drop of blood seemed to leave her face.
She could hear her father’s and Faradeane’s footsteps outside, could catch a word or two spoken by the latter, and his musical, true voice seemed to strike in with that of the man at her side and caused it to sound falser.
“In a fortnight?” she breathed, and her voice sounded strained and harsh.
“Why not?” he insisted. “You can get everything ready by that time. But you are not the one to think of clothes and all that sort of thing when your father’s happiness is at stake.”
“No,” she said in a hard, mechanical voice. “But——” and her hands locked together. “Give me another week!”
“Very well,” he said, and his eyes shone with satisfaction, for he had expected her to plead for a month at least. “Say three weeks, then. Three weeks!” his face flushed and he smiled, “that will give me time to do up The Maples and make it fit for its mistress, its queen. Ah, how happy we will be, dearest! Where shall we go? Italy, Switzerland, the lakes?” and he clasped her hand, which seemed to grow colder each moment. “There is nothing in the world you may want that you shan’t have, I promise you—nothing! I’m rich, as you know, and I’m prepared to spend any amount you like; you shall see.”
She looked at him. It seemed to her marvelous that he should so little understand her.
“I want nothing—nothing but to see papa happy!” she said.