The thought, whatever it was, seemed to increase his uneasiness, and he wiped the perspiration from his face, which had suddenly grown white under the reflection. Then he opened the door. Olivia was alone, and seated at the piano, but not playing. Her hands were lying clasped loosely in her lap, her face and her whole attitude expressive of complete abstraction--so complete that she did not hear him open the door, and it was not until he was close beside her and had spoken her name, that she knew he had entered. “Mr. Bradstone!” she said, with a slight start. “I thought you had gone,” she added, coldly. The sullen look came into his eyes for a moment. “No, I ought to have gone; but I have been talking with the squire,” he said. “Yes?” she said. “Is my father in the library?” and she half arose, a plain intimation that she should, if Mr. Bradstone would leave her free to, join him. “Yes, he is in the library; but will you wait a minute, Miss Olivia----” She sank back, and began putting the music together. “You can’t guess what we have been talking about, I’ll be bound,” he said, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. Olivia just frowned at him. “I haven’t any intention of trying,” she said, not insolently, but with an indifference which was sublime. It made Bartley Bradstone wince--simply wince. “You’d be surprised if I told you it was--you,” he said. She looked at him now, a look of calm displeasure and incredulity. “I should, indeed!” she said. “But we were,” he continued, trying to smile, and leaning on the piano; “we were talking about you, and have been for some time. I--in fact--don’t be startled, don’t be angry--I went to ask him to--to let me--in fact--I’ve told the squire that I love you, Olivia.” Her face did not change, not a muscle moved. She simply regarded him with cold incredulity, and the amazement which one expresses at the impertinence of an inferior. “You don’t believe me; but I did. You must know--you must have seen,” he went on, huskily, his hands clasping and unclasping each other, “that--that I loved you. I do love you; I’ve loved you ever since--Olivia, won’t you say a word? Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, don’t stare at me like that! Your father did not treat me like this----” “My father?” she said, after a pause. “You told my father what you have told me?” “Yes, I did. I know what’s proper, and I went and told him before I spoke to you. And now, Olivia, now you know, what do you say? Wait a moment. I--I’m afraid I haven’t done the best for myself. I’m--I’m not a lady’s man, and I’ve sprung it upon you too sharply. But it was dangerous, this hanging about and waiting, and--and I got anxious. But you know it now. I’m not a bad sort of fellow, I fancy, and I can offer you----” She rose from the seat and moved toward the door. He stood in front of her, desperate--imploring. “Let me pass, please,” she said, quietly.