There was never any occasion for him to say Olivia; there was only one “she” in the world for him.
“She bears it wonderfully; one would almost think she welcomes it. She suggests a cottage in Wales or an exile on the Continent. I told her I should come to you.”
Clydesfold nodded again.
“Better take her on the Continent,” he said. “The change will work a miracle in her. This trouble of yours will lead her to forget her own, and all that has passed. Yes, take her to Paris,” he concluded.
“Very well,” assented the squire, as if he was a father taking a wise son’s advice. “And what are you going to do? You will not live in this place any longer, Clydesfold?”
“No, not much longer. I shall leave it when you are gone.”
“That is right,” said the squire. “I am glad; but for your sake, and not for my own,” and he sighed. “It will be hard to think of the old place having gone forever, and still harder to think of your having left it too. A double loss, Clydesfold. Where will you live? You have two or three places in England, have you not?”
“Yes; but I am going to live at Hawkwood Grange,” he said, quietly.
The squire started and stared at him.
“At—at—the Grange?” he faltered.