“Laugh! No, she didn’t laugh much,” replied Faradeane, grimly, as the vision of the slim, graceful form lying full length in its abandon of misery rose before him.
“Then she took it seriously? What did you say to her, Faradeane?”
“I said all I could. I did my best. Believe that, Bertie. I can’t tell you what I said, but I pleaded as if”—he paused, and his lips came together tightly—“as if I were pleading for myself. I could do no more. Would to Heaven I had not done so much!” bitterly.
“And what did she reply? Did she say ‘No’ straight out?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Then there is—there may be some hope! You took her by surprise; she was frightened, perhaps. She’ll think it over,” said Bertie, excitedly.
Faradeane rose and laid his hand on his shoulder, firmly, yet, pityingly.
“Cherub, there is no hope,” he said, in a low, grave voice. “I should be your bitterest enemy, instead of your best friend, if I allowed you to think that there was. There is none. Accept it, Bertie, once and for all. Be a man; there is no hope—there never has been. If you had pleaded for yourself, if an angel had pleaded for you, instead of me, it would have been the same.”
“She—she never cared for me?”
“Yes, she cares for you as a sister cares for a brother. Be content with that——”