“That’s more his misfortune than his fault, perhaps,” said Bertie, with a laugh.
“Misfortune!” echoed the squire, in a strange tone; then he laughed. “I don’t think he would so describe it. I rather think it is his fault.”
“I see,” said Bertie, easily. “Made his money himself, and all that. Well, that’s in his favor, anyhow. I dare say he is a good fellow, and it’s a capital idea of his, this preserving. Oh, yes! I like a man who has made his own fortune, don’t you, Olivia?”
“It all depends,” replied Olivia, dryly.
The squire glanced at her, not impatiently, but anxiously, questioningly, doubtfully.
“I’ve never heard a word against Mr. Bradstone,” he remarked, with a querulousness which was so new to him that Bertie almost stared at him. “He is the essence of good-nature, and has exerted it on—on several occasions. I hope you’ll like him, Bertie.”
“Of course I shall—if you wish it,” said Bertie, promptly and heartily.
“I wish it?” repeated the squire, almost frowning; “why should I——” Then he stopped short, and rather inconsistently said, with something like irritation: “My dear Bertie, the man has settled here in our midst, and—and is our neighbor. But don’t let us talk any more about him. Come in. Of course you will dine with us?”
But, strange to say, Bertie, with a faint accession of color, pulled out his watch and shook his head.
“I can’t, I’m sorry to say. I’ll come over to dinner to-morrow, if I may.”