The squire knitted his brows.
“It was very unfortunate, his turning up as he did yesterday. And those gypsies, too. It was very annoying for Mr. Bradstone. Did you enjoy the picnic, Olivia?”
“Yes,” she replied, indifferently, and turned to the books again.
“It was an admirable luncheon.” he said, watching her, with the deep lines graving themselves in his forehead; “admirable. Mr. Bradstone must have spared no expense or trouble. He did his very best to make it a success.”
“Oh, yes,” she assented, coldly; “I think it was a success. Annie and Mary enjoyed themselves.”
“Yes,” he said, leaning his head on his hand, and watching her with the same troubled, anxious, wistful gaze. “Yes. Was he very attentive to them? I didn’t notice. It would be a very good match for one of them. He is a very rich man, Olivia.”
“Is he?” she said, with supreme indifference. “I think this will do for Bessie; I remember reading it. It is full of incident, and yet the characters talk naturally——”
“Bartley Bradstone is very rich,” said the squire, ignoring her criticism of the novel. “He would be a good match for most girls. If he were in London he would be snapped up at once.”
“I dare say,” said Olivia, turning the leaves of the book carelessly.
“Yes,” said the squire, thoughtfully, “money is everything nowadays. It is all that any one thinks of, and Bartley Bradstone has it in abundance.”