“Is he a friend of yours, Lord Granville?” demanded Bartley.
Olivia said nothing, though her eyes were eloquent enough. The color rose to poor Bertie’s face.
“It—it is Mr. Faradeane, of The Dell,” he stammered—fancy the Cherub stammering!—“I made his acquaintance the day his dog ran loose, Olivia. That’s all.”
CHAPTER VII.
A SIMPLE BIT OF CHARITY.
It was the morning after Mr. Bradstone’s elaborate picnic, and the clock was striking twelve as Olivia, with her hat and jacket on, knocked at the door of the squire’s den, as the room in which he kept his guns and fishing-rods, and in which he transacted his business as justice of the peace, was called.
She knocked twice, then, having received no answer, opened the door and entered.
To her surprise she saw her father seated in his well-worn leather chair, bending over the table, his head leaning on his hand. Before him was a goodly—or evil—array of papers, and his face, as he raised it, wore that anxious and troubled expression which Olivia had seen upon it so often of late.
“I beg your pardon, papa,” she said. “I did not want to disturb you, but I knocked twice, and, thinking you were out, ventured in. I want a book for Bessie.”
The squire was an inveterate novel reader, and there was always a goodly stock of popular fiction lying about the den.
“A novel. Yes, my dear,” and he made an attempt at rising; but Olivia went to him quickly and put her hand upon his shoulder.