“Oh, Faradeane, is that you?” he said, coming forward. “How do you do? Thanks for taking care of my little girl; she is rather a runagate,” and he smiled as he held out his hand.
Faradeane shook hands with him and then held out his hand to Bartley Bradstone. Bradstone looked for a moment as if he were going to refuse it, and his face went from white to red, but he took the proffered hand at last.
“Rather a—a strange coincidence, isn’t it?” he said, breathing hard. “Were you spending the evening at the lodge, Faradeane?”
Harold Faradeane looked at him calmly, without the faintest sign of resentment of the insinuation.
“No,” he said, “I happened to be passing, and heard Bessie propose to escort Miss Vanley up the avenue, and offered myself as a substitute.”
“Oh,” said Bartley Bradstone, with as much of a sneer as he dared display, “which she accepted readily enough, of course?”
The crimson flooded Olivia’s face and neck; but Faradeane met his covertly furious face with calm self-possession.
“Which Miss Vanley was kind enough to accept, as you say,” he said. “We met with no adventures on the road, and I return her to you safe and unharmed,” and he smiled.
“Thanks, thanks; come in, come in, all of you,” said the squire, hurriedly, with a spasm of pain at Bartley Bradstone’s exhibition of temper.
Faradeane looked at his watch.