"I don't mean to The Beeches, Olive."
"Where, then?"
He sat down beside her, and took a letter from his pocket.
"As you know, Olive, I have little by little taken a less active part in business."
"Yes," she said.
"And I'm tired of London. The eternal fogs and grey skies of the winter oppress me. For years I've longed to live in the country. Even at The Beeches we are more and more invaded by the London fogs. Besides, there is no necessity for me to live near London any longer. I have quite as much money as I need, and, added to this, I have been able to trust more and more in the heads of the various departments of my business. An occasional visit will be quite enough for me."
"Well, father?"
"Well, some little time ago a fine old estate in Devonshire fell into the market."
"In Devonshire!"
"Yes, about thirty miles from Taviton. I did not speak to you about it, because I wished to surprise you. I instructed a man to make an offer for it; but owing to some hitch, the affair was not settled, and I was informed that it had passed into other hands. I was awfully disappointed because—because—well, Olive, I wanted to give it to you for a wedding present, and then invite myself as your perpetual guest."