“Take her to the tent, Fred, and look after her.”
Then, as the young man, who looked delighted at her discomfiture, turned to shake hands with her step-mother, Mr. Denison whispered to his daughter, in as peremptory a tone as he ever used to her—
“You mustn’t put on these airs, Olivia. Young Williams is a very good fellow, and has obliged me considerably, more than once. I insist on your being civil to him.”
Olivia turned white, and bit her lips. A suspicion of the truth, that her father was under monetary obligations to this wretched little stripling, flashed into her mind. She waited very quietly, but with a certain erect carriage of the head which promised ill for the treatment Fred would receive at her hands. He, however, was not the man to be scrupulous about the way in which he attained his ends. He trotted beside her to the tent in a state of great elation.
“Awfully slow these bun scuffles, ain’t they?” he said in his most insinuating tones. “I shouldn’t have come at all if it hadn’t been for the chance of meeting—some one I wanted to see.”
This was accompanied by a most significant look; but unfortunately Olivia, who was considerably taller than he, was looking over his head at some fresh arrivals.
“Indeed,” she said, absently.
Fred reddened; that is to say, a faint tint, like the color in his tie, appeared for a moment in his cheeks, and then left them as yellow as before. He tried again. She should look at him; it didn’t matter how, but she should look.
“Those country girls look at me as if they’d never seen anything like this get-up before. It’s the proper thing down in the south, isn’t it?”
“I should think so—on Margate ‘excursionists,’” answered Olivia, briefly.