“Of Faradeane,” said Bertie. “Isn’t he splendid? By Jove! he was at his best to-night—I mean I should think so,” he stammered, with a mental banning of his carelessness. “That’s what I call humor, Olivia, don’t you? Anybody can make you laugh—I mean any low comedian, but not as he does. He makes you think at the same time, don’t you know. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I think I do,” she said, in a low tone. “Is Mr. Faradeane always in such good spirits?”
“No, by Jove! poor old fellow!” said Bertie, regretfully. “He is generally awfully sad and quiet. I think he came out strong to-night to please the squire and amuse Annie and Mary. They were delighted, weren’t they?”
“Yes. And you think Mr. Faradeane had no thought of our amusement and applause—yours and Mr. Bradstone’s and mine?” she asked, with her rare smile.
“No; I think he exerted himself for the squire and the girls. It’s just like his good nature.”
“You appear to have become very intimate with him in a short time,” said Olivia.
Poor Bertie colored a deep red, which the darkness luckily concealed.
“Well, you see, he’s the sort of man you do learn to know quickly; so—so frank.”
“Frank!” with a smile.
“Well,” he stammered, “not exactly frank, but——”