“But I must thank you, old fellow! The best, the dearest——”
“When am I to do this?” interrupted Faradeane in a strained, harsh voice.
“Soon! As soon as you can to-morrow!” replied Bertie, all in a fervor. “I can’t wait any longer—I can’t, indeed! Ah, if you knew how I love her!”
“Perhaps I can guess,” caustically.
“But you can’t. You see, she is nothing to you; just a pretty, lady-like girl——”
“Just a pretty, lady-like girl,” echoed Faradeane in a strange voice; “exactly.”
“But to me she is a goddess, an—an angel. Oh, dear old man, do the best you can for me. I leave it all to you. Tell her that I love her better than life itself; that I—but you will know what to say better than I can tell you. You won’t be all of a tremble as I should be. You, not caring for her, will be cool and collected, and—and will persuade her. I should break down and stumble and stammer; but you—you see, it’s a matter of perfect indifference to you!”
“Exactly,” said Faradeane, and his voice sounded almost harsh and hoarse; “and now——”
“Yes, I’m going,” said Bertie, seizing his hat. “I won’t thank you——”
“Don’t.”