Olivia’s head dropped, and a faint color flew into her cheeks.
“Do you ask Lord Clydesfold’s advice as to how many pieces of toast you should eat for breakfast, dear?” she whispered, with a little pout.
The old man rubbed his chin, and laughed absently.
“Well, I think I do, almost. I’ll just go down to The Dell; I wish he’d come up here. But—but, I suppose——” and he looked at her.
“Yes, you suppose rightly,” she said, hiding her face on his shoulder again. “Do you want me to die of shame, as I should do the moment I saw him?”
“No, I don’t want you to die of anything,” he said, tenderly stroking her hand.
“Why doesn’t he go back to London, to his old friends, the lords and ladies, who used to be so fond of him?”
“I don’t know. I told him that it was his duty to do so; and he remarked that he was rather tired of doing his duty.”
A smile crept over Olivia’s face, and her eyes grew dreamy.
“That is like one of his old speeches,” she murmured. “And he looks better, and more as he used to do.”