CHAPTER XXIII.
WHEN GOD DREW NEAR AMONG HIS OWN TO CHOOSE.
"And is that the word you are going to send back, Olive?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Roger must go abroad, alone?"
"I suppose so, if he goes at all."
Mr. Congreve sighed, and Olive began to tap her foot impatiently on the grass.
"Uncle Ridley, I couldn't; I should hate him; I should hate myself and my art, too, if I felt that I owed all its success to some one else. He would be miserably unhappy, and so would I. Even if I loved him as he wants me to, I couldn't accept everything from him."
"Too proud, Olive, too proud; but then I suppose you are right; indeed, I shouldn't wonder if you were," muttered the old gentleman, walking slowly back and forth with his eyes down. "But I hate to take this word back to the boy, I do indeed."