“Pray don’t give it a moment’s thought or regret. Mr. Bradstone’s indignation was very natural. Trespassers are a nuisance at any time; but at a picnic they are intolerable. I have written to Mr. Bradstone apologizing for my intrusion, and assuring him that ‘it shan’t occur again.’ I hope you had a pleasant day.”
“Very,” said Olivia; and he turned to go again, when she said: “My father called on you this morning. He was sorry to find you were out.”
He looked down at the path in grave silence for a moment; then he said, as he raised his eyes to hers:
“Will you please thank Mr. Vanley for his courtesy. I live a very solitary and secluded life, Miss Vanley.”
“Does that mean that you decline his acquaintance?” asked Olivia, in her straightforward way.
His brow furrowed with a wistful, troubled frown.
“I am afraid it does,” he said. “I am what is called a recluse, a misanthrope——”
“What is called,” said Olivia, quietly; “a misanthrope who stops runaway ponies, and takes the trouble to inquire daily after a sick girl! Isn’t that a little inconsistent?”
He smiled.
“You are rather hard upon me,” he said, in a low voice. He paused. “I am sorry I did not see Mr. Vanley this morning; but consider—what sympathy, what friendship could exist between Harold Faradeane of The Dell and the Squire of Hawkwood?”