“He is one of the most cultivated men I have ever met,” replied the squire, warmly and emphatically, “and when I think of the absurd nonsense old Sparrow talked the other day, I am inclined to call him an idiot. Mr. Faradeane is a gentleman every inch of him, and one of the most charming young men possible.” “I am very glad you like him, as he is so near a neighbor,” she said. “Yes, liking is the word. He has quite taken a hold on me. The reason for his coming and burying himself at The Dell may be a mystery, but it is no unworthy one; I am quite convinced of that. He talks admirably; not with the straining after-effect which is the great vice of the present day, but with the pleasant manner of a man who wants to hear you as well as himself. By the way, your aunt has caught him for that entertainment of hers on the twenty-ninth. Do you think he would dine with us?” “Do I think?” replied Olivia, raising her dark brows with a smile. “You know more of Mr. Faradeane than I do, papa? What do you think?” “I don’t know,” said the squire, thoughtfully. “I’ve an idea that he forced himself to call, and that he might decline. It isn’t pride; no, that man couldn’t foster so vulgar a sentiment; not pride, but a strange kind of reserve that crops up now and again in his manner and conversation. Strange! Perhaps it is some past trouble. Well, we can but ask him.” Olivia turned her head aside, and toyed with a branch of Virginia creeper. “Very well, papa; any one else?” “Eh? Oh, yes, if you like. Bartley Bradstone and Bertie. Bertie likes him, I’m sure; and Annie and Mary Penstone. As many as you like--no, don’t make it a large party. I fancy he would prefer a very small one.” “You are more considerate of Mr. Faradeane’s whims and fancies than you usually are of other people’s, papa,” she said, with a smile. He looked at her as if the same idea had struck him. “Am I? Well, I’ve taken a fancy to him, I suppose; at any rate, I should like to know more of him. Ask him, and see what he says.” Faradeane was sitting at his desk writing, when, the next morning, a groom rode over with the invitation, and he took it and looked at the address, in Olivia’s handwriting, for a good minute before opening the envelope. Then he read the short, formal note, and reread it; got up and lit a pipe, and paced up and down with the letter in his hand, a troubled, wistful expression on his face, an expression of hesitation, over which longing predominated. “Too late!” he muttered; “too late to draw back now. I have passed the Rubicon, and yet--oh, fool! fool!” Then he sat down and wrote a formal acceptation.