“I’ve heard most of the stories a score of times,” said Bartley Bradstone, filling his glass.
“And I haven’t heard one,” said the squire; “but I have been out of the world so long.”
“You couldn’t have heard them, squire,” said Bertie, warmly, “seeing that Faradeane invented them on the spot.”
“Not all, Cherub,” put in Faradeane, with a faint smile.
“Well, nearly all. I remember you telling that one about Limerick races——” He stopped and caught at his wine glass as Faradeane’s eyes grew grave and warning. “I mean I remember that story years ago.”
“I never heard it before,” said the squire, “and am just as grateful as if Mr. Faradeane had invented it,” and he laughed. “Well, now, take some wine, for we must have a cup of tea with the ladies before you start.”
Bartley Bradstone filled his glass, but Faradeane and Bertie left theirs empty, and a few minutes afterward they went into the drawing-room.
CHAPTER IX.
“THE BIRD IS NETTED.”
The ladies had got their outdoor things on; but Olivia stood at the teatable with her gloves off to give the gentlemen their tea. As Faradeane went up to her for his cup, she raised her eyes to his face curiously, and felt no surprise at seeing it wear its usual grave and half-sad expression. She had instinctively known that he had been acting during the dinner, and the light-heartedness which had so enchanted the rest, was but seeming.
He met her gaze and smiled faintly, and her eyes fell.