Faradeane closed the door carefully, and dropped his hat on the table.
“No—that is, yes; it’s of no consequence.” He went to the sideboard and drank some wine. “I—I beg your pardon; help yourself. You’ll want it,” he added, not unfeelingly, but with a sad, decisive air.
“Then—then you’ve seen her?” faltered Bertie. “I thought you would go to her this morning. You have seen her——”
“Yes, I have seen her,” assented Faradeane, dryly.
“And—but there is no need to ask you the result,” breathed Bertie, like a man resolved not to show the agony that is devouring him.
“My face is that of an unsuccessful ambassador, is it? Yes, my mission has failed, Cherub. I am sorry.”
Bertie turned his back to him and was silent for a moment; then he said, hoarsely:
“What did she say? Tell me.”
“What did she say?” repeated Faradeane, dropping into a chair and passing his hand over his brow with a weary gesture, as a smile of bitter self-mockery shone for a moment in his eyes. “I don’t know. What does it matter?”
“You don’t know?” echoed Bertie, turning to him. “For Heaven’s sake, try and remember! I—I can bear it, whatever it was. Did she laugh?” and his lips quivered.