They made their way to the house, Olivia and her father chatting over old times and Bertie’s travels with Bertie, and thus Bartley Bradstone was left out in the cold, or thought that he was. He stopped at the bottom of the flight of steps and looked at his watch.
“It’s time I was going,” he said, sullenly.
The squire started.
“I hope you’ll stay to dinner, Bradstone,” he said, and the preoccupied, almost anxious look which had been absent while he had been talking to Bertie, came over his face again.
“No, thanks; I’ve got an engagement,” replied Mr. Bradstone. “Good-day; don’t trouble, I can get my horse,” for the squire made a movement to accompany him; and raising his hat a couple of inches to Olivia, who bowed in silence, he strode off.
An awkward silence fell upon the three.
“That’s—that’s a very clever young man,” said the squire, with a little cough; “very clever. I think you’ll find him quite an acquisition to the neighborhood, Bertie.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bertie; “rather a—er—rough kind of fellow, isn’t he? Not very good tempered, is he?” and he looked with a smile from the squire, whose brows contracted, to Olivia, whose face seemed like a mask in its cold reserve. “Not quite a—a gentleman?”
The squire bit his lips.
“Well—he is a very good-natured young fellow, and”—he paused again—“very rich.”