He started, and sprang to his feet, with a look, not of apprehension, but as if he had been suddenly awakened from some painful reverie, and Bertie felt a pang shoot through him at the pallor and the wanness of the handsome face.
“Well, Cherub,” he said. “Is it you?”
“Yes. I startled you. I’m awfully sorry. Were you asleep, old man?”
Faradeane smiled.
“No, only thinking. Well, have you come from the Grange? Sit down.”
Bertie sank into the chair with a sigh.
“Yes. I’ve just come from the Grange. I’m sorry you didn’t join us. I left them all talking of your wonderful performance——”
Faradeane made a little gesture of deprecation, as much as to say that he had already received more than his due in that way, and, placing a cigar box on the table, lit his pipe.
“It was kind of you to look in, Cherub,” he said; “and I am very glad to see you. Make yourself comfortable, and accept my gratitude—and some whisky-and-water.”
“As to gratitude—well, to tell you the truth—but I say, old fellow, I thought I saw you in the garden in the front as I came in just now.”