The dog stopped instantly, and the owner seemed about to go back with him, when, as if reluctantly, he came forward and raised his hat.
Olivia felt rather than saw his dark eyes fixed on her, and, lifting hers, saw that this distinguished-looking man, with the handsome and strangely grave and reserved face, must be “the mysterious stranger,” as she had jestingly called him. He was young, as Mr. Sparrow had said, but the dark hair was touched where it was cut close on the temples with faint streaks of gray, and the eyes, with their singularly impressive expression, were full of a reserved melancholy.
“I am afraid my dog——” he said, in a grave voice. Then he stopped; and Olivia, looking up to see the cause, saw a strange thing.
On Bertie’s frank face were two expressions struggling for mastery—astonishment, that might or might not have been recognition, and a desire to crush down all sign of this recognition, if recognition it was.
On the stranger’s face was simply a set look of almost grim impassibility. No one, judging by his face, would have guessed that he had ever seen Lord Bertie before.
The pause was only that of a second, a flash of time; and as he continued his sentence, removing the steady gaze of his dark eyes from Bertie to Olivia, his voice remained just the same unfalteringly grave one. “I am sorry that my dog should have annoyed you; he has broken his chain, as you see. I may add that he is particularly quiet, and would not have attacked the dogs. Please forgive me.”
He raised his hat again to Olivia, she inclined her head, and, the dog following close upon his heels, he turned and walked back to The Dell.
There was a moment’s silence; then Olivia, a little pale—why, she could not have told—said:
“I forgot to tell you of another change. Mr. Sparrow has sold The Dell, and that gentleman, I suppose, is the owner.”
“Really?” said Bertie, slowly, and without lifting his eyes to hers. “What is his name?”