“Why, dear, we thought you were never coming!” exclaimed Mary, drawing the supple neck downward that she might kiss the fresh, red lips. “How well you are looking!”
“And how beautiful!” murmured Annie, drawing her gauntlet from her hand.
“You flatterers!” said Olivia, kissing them both and slipping from her horse.
“We were so afraid you wouldn’t come,” said Mary, “and we are so glad to see you, you can’t tell. And isn’t this delightful? So kind of Mr. Bradstone! And you rode over with dear Bertie. No wonder he looks so bright and happy!” and she shot a half-playful, half-jealous glance from her boyish eyes at the Cherub, who, having got rid of one of the giants in plush, was mixing a salad.
“He will look ever so much brighter and happier when he has had some lunch,” said Olivia.
“For Heaven’s sake persuade him to send some of those fellows away, sir,” said Bertie in a low voice to the squire, as they seated themselves; “it isn’t a bit like a picnic with them hovering like huge birds-of-paradise over us!”
The squire shrugged his shoulders.
“Let him alone—he means well,” he said, good-naturedly.
Bartley Bradstone came up to them at this moment. He was looking flushed and excited and—fussy.
“Have you got all you want? Miss Olivia, let them give you some of this pâté. Squire, I think you will find this champagne correct—Pommery ’73.”