“I mean they’ll consider that it ought to be more, and if they do, I’ll make it just what they want. In fact, I’ll do anything to get--to--prove my love for Olivia; and I’ll undertake to make her happy, if a man could do it.” The squire did not hold out his hand, as a father usually does under such circumstances, as he would have done, for instance, if Bertie or some one like him had made the speech, but he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “It is a liberal, generous proposal,” he said. “You have my consent, Bradstone, and--and my best wishes. But remember that Olivia will be left perfectly free; by no word or look would I endeavor to influence her. If she accepts you, it will be of her own accord, and if she should refuse----” Bartley Bradstone bit his lip again. “You will understand that the--the matter is at an end.” “I understand, sir,” he said. “And now we have settled, perhaps I’d better speak to Olivia,” and he flung his cigar in the fireplace. The squire gave a slight start. “To-night?” he said. “Well--yes--I suppose a lover’s impatience----” “Oh, I don’t like it,” said Bartley Bradstone, with a faint laugh. “But it’s been my motto all through life that if a disagreeable--I mean a hard job has got to be done, it’s better to set about it at once and get it over. I shall speak to Olivia to-night--the sooner the better. If I waited”--he hesitated, then blurted it out--“if I waited, I might wait too long; some other fellow might step in. I’ll go now, I think, sir.” “You will find her in the drawing-room, and alone, I think,” said the squire, with a faint sigh. “I heard the Penstone carriage go a quarter of an hour since.” “So did I,” said Bartley Bradstone, with a knowing look. “I was only waiting for their departure,” and he went out. He had not told the squire that he held all his bonds in his hands, and that at any moment he could crush him, ruin him, turn him out of the Grange. Bartley Bradstone was clever enough to know that if he had done so, and had also intimated that his price for sparing her father was the daughter’s hand, the squire would have turned him out of the house, and probably kicked him into the bargain. No, Bartley Bradstone, though a vulgar _parvenu_, was too clever to make such a false move. He reserved it. That was all. CHAPTER XI. A BID FOR LOVE. For all his outward show of composure, he was feeling anything but comfortable, and as he stood with his hand upon the drawing-room door, there was a strange look upon his face, a look that expressed something more than the usual lover’s despondent timidity, something more than the ordinary nervousness; it was rather that of a man who was playing a dangerous and a desperate game, and who stands upon the brink of a precipice, which, lined as it may be with flowers, means, if he should fall, death and destruction. “The old man was easy,” he muttered, “but it’s different with her. By Heaven, if she knew!”