“I think of running over to Paris to-morrow.”
Bertie and Lord Carfield exchanged glances.
“Very well,” said the latter. “Early train?”
“Thanks, yes; pass the marmalade, Bertie.”
That was all; but as he got into the dogcart on the morrow, Bertie held his hand and pressed it.
“Good luck, dear old boy,” he whispered; and Lord Clydesfold returned the pressure without a word.
He had received news of her almost daily, sometimes from the squire, sometimes from Bessie, and not seldom from the Paris society papers.
For, though they had striven to live in as much seclusion as is possible in the gay city, friends had hunted them up and had insisted upon Olivia going out a little. She withstood all entreaties for some time, but yielded at last; and the Parisians, who are always ready to acknowledge and welcome beauty and grace—even English, which are supposed to be non-existent!—made what Aunt Amelia called “a fuss” over her.
Before ten months had passed Olivia had received as many offers. One from a well-known nobleman, of so high a rank that he must be nameless in these pages, threw good Aunt Amelia into a flutter of excitement, which was turned into the agony of despair by Olivia’s refusal.
“My dear,” she exclaimed, with tearful indignation, “do you want to marry an emperor? Is that what you are waiting for?”