To be consistent with her name, Olivia should have been of a dark and olive complexion; but the only thing dark in the lovely face were the hazel eyes. Her hair was an auburn chestnut, which Joshua Reynolds loved to paint, with eyebrows to match; mouth “rather large,” as Miss Amelia declared—she possessed, and was exceedingly proud of, one of the well known speaking doll pattern—but as expressive as the eyes. Face and figure were eloquent of youth and perfect health, and her voice was full of that music which youth and health and womanly refinement and delicacy combine to give.
The Grange was the principal house in Hawkwood, and the room was a very fair specimen of the drawing-rooms in a modern country mansion.
Mr. Sparrow was speaking, and his thin, piping voice chimed in not discordantly with the treble notes which Olivia’s hand now and again touched.
“There is—er—something of a mystery about it, and I—er—dislike mysteries, Miss Amelia.”
“Do you, really?” responded Miss Amelia, with a girlish simper. “Now, I love a mystery, Mr. Sparrow; but then we poor women are so fond of romance and—and all that. We have the softer, the more poetic nature, I suppose. You men are so hard!” And she stuck her head very much on one side at the tame-looking old lawyer, who straightened himself as well as he was able under the disadvantage of the teacup and plate, and tried to look as if he were, indeed, hard and practical. “And you do think, there is a mystery! How charming! You really must tell us all about it; we are dying to hear the whole—the whole story. Aren’t we, Olivia?”
The young girl gave the very faintest inclination of her head by way of response, and silently pressed down a chord.
“There’s not much to tell, as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Sparrow, with the little cough with which old gentlemen preface a story they are anxious to relate. “Last Friday my clerk came into my room and said that a gentleman wished to see me. He gave the name of Faradeane.”
“Faradeane! Dear me, how strange, really!” murmured Miss Amelia, who would have made the same comment if the name had been Smith.
“Yes, Faradeane. It was quite unknown to me,” continued Mr. Sparrow, “and the gentleman was quite as unknown. He was a young man and—and a gentleman. There can be no doubt about that. I—er—think I know a gentleman when I see him, Miss Amelia.”
“Indeed, yes,” murmured Miss Amelia, promptly. “Was he very young?”