“Is that all of your story?” asked the elder little girl.

“Yes,” said Olive, laughing, “that is all.”

“Well, then, let Mr. Hemphill go on with his,” said she.

“Oh, certainly,” said Olive, jumping up; “and you must all excuse me for interfering with your story.”

Mr. Hemphill sat still, a little girl on each knee.  He had not spoken a word since that beautiful girl had told him she had once loved him.  And he could not speak now.

“You look as if you had a plaster taken off,” said the younger little girl.  And, after waiting a moment for an answer, she slipped off his knee; the other followed; and the story was postponed.

When Mrs. Easterfield heard Olive’s account of this incident she was utterly astounded.  “What sort of a girl are you” she exclaimed.  “What are you going to do about it now?”

“Do?” said Olive quietly.  “I have done.”

Mrs. Easterfield was in a state of great perplexity.  She had already asked Mr. Hemphill to stay until Saturday, three days off, and she could not tell him to go away, and the awkwardness of his remaining in the same house with Olive was something not easy to deal with.

During Olive’s interview with Mr. Hemphill and the little girls Claude Locker had been sitting alone at a distance, gazing at the group.  He was waiting for an opportunity of social converse, for this was not forbidden him even if the time did not immediately precede the luncheon hour.  He saw Hemphill’s blazing face, and deeply wondered.  If it had been the lady who had flushed he would have bounced upon the scene to defend her, but Olive was calm, and it was the conscious guilt of the man that made his face look like a freshly painted tin roof.  This was an affair into which he had no right to intrude himself, and so he sat and sighed, and his heart grew heavy.  How many ante-luncheon avowals would have to be made before she would take so much interest in him, one way or the other!

Mr. Du Brant also sat at a distance.  He was reading, or at least appearing to read; but he was so unaccustomed to holding a book in his hands that he did it very awkwardly, and Miss Raleigh, who was looking at him from the library window, made up her mind that if he dropped it, as she expected him to do, she would get the book and rub the dirt off the corners before it was put back into the bookcase.  But when Olive left Mr. Hemphill she went so quickly into the house that the Austrian was unable to join her, and he, therefore, went to his room to prepare for dinner.

Dick Lancaster had also been waiting, although not watching.  He had hoped that he might have a chance for a little talk with Olive.  But there was really no good reason to expect it, for he knew that two, and perhaps three, young men had stayed at home that afternoon in the hope that they might have the same opportunity.  The odds against him were great.

He began to think that perhaps he was engaged in a foolish piece of business, and was in danger of making himself disagreeably conspicuous.  The other young men were guests at Broadstone, but if he came there every day as he had been doing, and as he wanted to do, it might be thought that he was taking advantage of Mrs. Easterfield’s kindness.  At that moment he heard the rustle of skirts, and, glancing up, saw Mrs. Easterfield, who was looking for him.