As he spoke the last word, his voice suddenly dropped and grew hoarse and indistinct. So much so that the squire, who had not expected such deep emotion, started and looked up at him. Bartley Bradstone’s face was perfectly white, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. “I have been devoted to--to Miss Olivia for months past,” he continued. “I’m not good at this kind of thing, and I don’t express myself very well; but what I’ve said is true. I do love her, and I’ll do all in my power to make her happy.” He cleared his throat, and took up a match to relight his cigar, which had gone out. The squire stared at the carpet with grave, troubled eyes for a moment. He had expected this; in his heart of hearts he had desired it, and yet--yet now it had come, it seemed to chill him with an indefinable repugnance. “Have you spoken to Olivia, Bradstone?” he asked, and his voice was rather that of a man speaking of a funeral than a contemplated marriage. Bartley Bradstone colored. “No,” he replied. “I have said nothing to Miss Olivia. I thought it my duty to come to you, her father, first; it’s the proper thing, isn’t it?” “Yes,” assented the squire. “Yes--usually, thank you--yes, of course it is the proper thing. But----” He paused. “But I ought to tell you at once that in this matter my daughter will be quite uninfluenced by me--I mean that she will be left to decide for herself completely.” “Then, if she says ‘Yes,’ I’m to understand that you will not object?” said Bartley Bradstone. The squire looked up at him with a half sad, half reluctant expression in his eyes. “Why should I object?” he said, as if to himself. “We have known you for some time, you are a near neighbor, and--I speak frankly, Bradstone--you possess the wealth without which, alas! few marriages can be happy.” “Yes,” said Bartley Bradstone, and for the first time he drew himself up. “I think I can satisfy you on that point. I think I may say that Olivia will, as my wife, be able to live as comfortably as she has done as your daughter.” The squire winced at the vulgarity and familiarity of the speech, as he nodded assentingly. “It is a consideration that has weight with me,” he said. “But I ought to tell you, though you do not need telling, I am sure, that it will not have a feather’s weight with Olivia.” “Most women like money,” said Bartley Bradstone. The squire winced. “Yes, most. But not Olivia. She cares nothing for it. She would be as contented in one of the keeper’s cots as here at the Grange or at The Maples--that is, so far as money is concerned. But all this is premature and useless talk. You have not spoken to her yet, you say. It will be time to--to talk of the financial part of the subject after----” He paused and suppressed a sigh.