Faradeane stopped and put up his hand with a bitter laugh.
“Worthy! I!” he said, in an undertone.
“Yes,” said Bertie, stubbornly. “In all this—this mystery that hangs about you, I know how worthy you are; I could have borne it, I could have looked forward to the time when I could have cared for her as a sister, and—but this man! Why, Faradeane, has she ever looked at him or spoken to him at all pleasantly? Hasn’t she snubbed him and treated him in such a way as would have made you and me go and cut our throats?”
“That’s a woman’s way,” said Faradeane, grimly; “to treat a man like a dog and then—marry him.”
“But not hers!” responded Bertie, with earnest conviction. “You don’t know Olivia as well as I do.” Faradeane smiled sadly. “She has none of the unwomanly meannesses. No, there is some other reason.”
Faradeane stopped short and looked at him.
“Do you mean to say that it is because the man is rich?”
Bertie shook his head.
“Heaven knows that can’t be the reason. The squire is a rich man; the estate——”
“Besides,” said Faradeane, more to himself than Bertie, “that would be a reason for accepting you!”