“I’ll get you another cup. That pretty dress! Won’t you let me wipe it for you?” he pleaded, tenderly. “No, no, thanks,” she returned in a voice of suppressed irritation. “I will go and change it,” and she moved to the door; but as she did so, Aunt Amelia exclaimed: “That delightful Mr. Faradeane, now really!” and Olivia paused to gather up some fancy-work from the piano. “He was such a great friend of Bertie’s, was he not? And I don’t wonder. Such a charming man! I really do wish he were a little more--more sociable. You might ask him to dinner again, Edwin.” The squire rose and shook his head. “It is no use,” he said, “Mr. Faradeane has plainly indicated his desire to be left alone. I asked him yesterday, and several days before, when I met him out riding. I am afraid he has been, and is, ill.” Olivia put her hand upon the door, but still waited. “Oh, I am so sorry! Fancy how dreadful to be ill and all alone in that solitary spot!” said Miss Amelia. “Poor man! I really think you ought to call, Edwin, and you, too, Bartley. I wonder”--with an air of maiden timidity--“if he would think it intrusive or--or pushing, if I sent him some beef tea.” The squire laughed quietly. “Better not, you think, Edwin? Well, perhaps so; one can’t be too careful. But I really think you ought to call, Bartley.” “I will, if you like,” he said, but not very readily. “Shall I, Olivia?” She turned her pale face slightly toward him. “I do not care,” she said, and opening the door, went out, and up the stairs to her own room. She stood by the white bed looking dreamily before her for a moment or two, her father’s words echoing dully in her ears; then she remembered why she had come upstairs, and was about to ring for her maid, when a great wave of heat seemed to sweep over her. “I can’t go back and listen to them talking of him--not just yet, not just yet!” she murmured, putting her hand to her throat. “He has been ill--but what is he to me?” with a dry sob. Her hat and a fur cloak were lying on a chair, and she took them up absently, and putting them on, went down the stairs on to the terrace. “Just five minutes alone!” she murmured. “Five minutes to think--no, to forget! Oh, if I could forget!” And she beat her hand upon the balustrade. “It would all be so easy if I could forget.” She stood for a moment or two looking wistfully down into the dusky avenue; then a sudden desire to lose herself in its shade possessed her. “I’ll go and see Bessie,” she murmured. She had not been near the girl since the engagement, fearing the scrutiny of the simple, loving eyes more than she had dreaded aught else. “Yes, I’ll go and see Bessie!” and she passed down the steps. As she did so, Bartley Bradstone’s commonplace figure came out by the drawing-room window and stood clearly defined against the light. “Olivia! Olivia!” he called.