When they reached the house, everything was too recent with Pembroke--his final speech, the excitement, the relief, the collapse--for him to have recovered himself. Olivia met them in the hall. Her father, who relished a new sensation as only a man who loves sensations can, was joyous. “Congratulate him, my love,” he called out in his merry, jovial voice. “He is a true son of old French Pembroke. Great Cæsar! Haven’t I seen your father carry everything before him just like this! Would that he were alive this night! My darling, you should have heard his speech--a regular Burr and Blennerhassett speech, Olivia--and the effect--by Jove, my dear, I can’t describe it--and the Judge called him up on the bench to congratulate him--and--and--” The Colonel surged on, telling everything at once. Olivia listened with shining eyes. She had held out her hand to Pembroke in the beginning, and as her father talked she continued to hold the hand in her little strong clasp. For the first time Pembroke was burnt by the fire in her eyes. What a woman for a man full of ambition to have! He had seen Elise Koller wildly enthusiastic about herself--but Olivia had forgotten all about herself. She was coloring, smiling, and sympathetic about him. “How glad I am--how splendid of you--for that poor negro, too. God will reward you,” she said. “Now, my boy,” cried the Colonel, “What do you want? Your dinner or your bed?” “My bed,” answered Pembroke, smiling, but ready to drop. “I want nothing but sleep, and I want to sleep a week. Thank you, Olivia.” He had never called her by her name since they were boy and girl together. The Colonel in his excitement did not notice it, but Olivia turned a beautiful rosy red. The Colonel dragged Pembroke off to his room. Petrarch put him to bed. Before he slept though, his thoughts returned to Olivia’s soft eyes--while Colonel Berkeley, walking the drawing-room floor downstairs, retailed in flamboyant language, to Olivia, the triumphs of the day. CHAPTER IX.