“Oh, yes, wasn’t that awful! I shall never forget the look of his eyes! If he had looked at me like that, so—so, not contemptuously quite, but so calmly and indifferently—I can’t express it—as he looked at Mr. Bradstone, I should have gone through the ground!”
“Like one of the patent tube wells,” said Olivia.
“Don’t laugh at me. I mean what I say, dear,” said Mary, pouting. “I’m sure I shall be afraid to speak to him, in case he should snub me. He looks as if he could be awfully severe.”
“He is not, I assure you; a child could play with him,” said Olivia.
“There you are, laughing again. It’s all very well for you; of course, he’d be nice to you, everybody always is; nobody could be otherwise to such a dear, beautiful girl; but poor Annie and me——”
“Poor Annie and me will be quite safe,” laughed Olivia. “Mr. Faradeane does not even bark, least of all bite.”
This was a few minutes before dinner, and the entrance of Bertie and Bartley Bradstone stopped the interesting conversation.
“We are only waiting for Mr. Faradeane,” said the squire, glancing at his watch, after the usual greetings had been got through.
“Faradeane?” said Bartley Bradstone as he stood in an easy—too easy—attitude, his evening suit cut in the very last fashion, and a costly diamond blazing in the center of his white shirt-front. “Faradeane? Is he coming?” and his brows came down with the half-sullen, half-suspicious frown.
“Yes,” said the squire, “and I am glad to say we have struck up a friendship. He is one of the pleasantest men——”