“Bertie Granville? Oh, yes. ‘The Cherub,’ as he is called.” “That’s the man,” said Bartley Bradstone, with a faint flush. He would not have dared to call him “Bertie” or “The Cherub.” “Well, he is coming, and I hope to persuade Miss Amelia, too. But the whole thing will be spoilt if you refuse.” Olivia looked at him from under her lids--the look which makes a man--that is, if he has a sensitive skin--feel as if he had been struck by a whip. “I don’t quite see how my absence could spoil your picnic, Mr. Bradstone,” she said, coldly. He lowered his restless eyes, and caught at his upper lip with his teeth. They were whole and even, but rather too large. “I mean that it would be spoilt for me,” he said, and added, nervously, “and--and for the rest, of course. Please say ‘Yes,’ Miss Vanley.” Olivia looked straight before her, with that expression in her eyes which belongs to the unfettered maiden spirit. “I will see,” she said, calmly. “You are not listening to Mr. Sparrow’s story, Mr. Bradstone.” He was too wise to press her further, and at once turned away toward the old lawyer, and listened to him for a moment or two; then he turned to the door with a contemptuous laugh. “You’ve sold your property to some fellow who is in hiding from his tailor, Mr. Sparrow,” he said. “Pity you didn’t sell it to me; I’d have given you twice the sum for it this man has given. Shouldn’t be surprised if we have the police down here directly looking for him. ’Pon my word, you ought to be more careful, Mr. Sparrow,” and with a patronizing nod he left the room, pausing for a minute or two to present his invitation to Miss Amelia. This last straw broke down Mr. Sparrow’s back, and shortly afterward he took himself off, feeling that he had, by selling his property to the mysterious unknown, not only offended his neighbor, but actually lost money! “How nice of Mr. Bradstone to arrange this picnic, Olivia,” said her aunt, when Mr. Sparrow had sorrowfully taken his departure. “He is always so kind and thoughtful in planning these little parties. Of course you will go, dear.” “I don’t know,” said Olivia, absently. She was standing by the window, looking down on the chimneys of The Dell, as her father had done, and thinking of the strange character who had become owner of the cottage. “You don’t know! My dear Olivia, what a strange reply. Why shouldn’t you go?” “Why should I?” said Olivia, without turning her head. Miss Amelia sniffed, and uttered the little cough which always served as a prelude to the lectures which she frequently felt it “her duty” to deliver to her niece.