“Now, my dear Olivia, I do hope that you will not permit yourself to--to--disappoint our excellent young friend. It is evident that he has got up this little affair in your honor, and it would surely be ungracious to disappoint him. Ungraciousness, if I may coin a word, in a lady is, my dear Olivia, unpardonable. Often and often have I, at great inconvenience, accepted an invitation rather than appear ungracious. And I do hope----” “Is there any tea left, auntie?” broke in Olivia. “You forget me when you are surrounded by your admirers.” Miss Amelia bridled, then smiled, and simpered: “My dear Olivia, how can you be so ridiculous? My admirers! I’m sure Mr. Sparrow is old enough to be my grandfather”--in which case poor Mr. Sparrow must have been a modern Methuselah--“and as to Mr. Bradstone, it is not me whom he admires----” “No sugar, thanks,” said Olivia, cutting in abruptly. “No! Any one with half an eye could see who it is that he admires, and whose society he seeks. And I must say, my dear Olivia, while I am on the subject, that for a young girl, scarcely out of her teens, your conduct is too cold----” “This tea is cold,” said Olivia. “Far too cold,” continued Miss Amelia, disregarding the interruption. “Mr. Bartley Bradstone is a young man worthy of every respect.” “It is a pity his horse doesn’t share your opinion, auntie,” said Olivia, looking through the window. “It doesn’t appear to respect him in the least. Some of these days it will carry its disrespect so far as to throw him off.” “Mr. Bradstone may not be a jockey. I repeat, he may not be a jockey; but, all the same, he is a young man worth due consideration. Olivia, do you forget that he is a millionaire--a millionaire!” “Neither I nor he forgets it,” said Olivia, succinctly. “Wealth--wealth, my dear Olivia, has its responsibilities and its--its--I may say its claims to our respect.” “Yes, I know,” said Olivia. “No one accuses you of forgetting what is due to it, auntie.” “No, my dear. I can lay my hand upon my heart----” But Olivia had already stepped through the window, and what Miss Amelia would do or say when she laid her hand upon her heart, must remain a mystery. Olivia paused a moment, looking out upon the view which stretched over an exquisite panorama of wooded vales, and “... Meadows all bedight With buttercups and daisies, elves’ delight.” Then she wandered down the broad garden path, and, with the same air of dreamy self-communion, passed out by the lodge gate into the road. Two dogs, which had been lying asleep on the lawn, had sprung up at the sound of her light footstep, and followed her, barking and yapping in frantic delight.