“Faradeane isn’t much in the way of company, is he?” he said, disparagingly.
The squire looked surprised.
“I think he is the most entertaining of men,” he said.
“Oh, ah, with ladies, perhaps,” assented Bartley Bradstone, grudgingly, “but he can’t sit and take his glass of wine like other fellows,” and he filled his glass again.
“He doesn’t drink much,” said the squire, absently, and he sighed.
“You seem a cup too low to-night, squire,” said Bartley Bradstone, with affected carelessness. “Anything wrong?”
The squire hesitated a moment, then took the letter from his pocket.
“I did not mean to trouble you with it, though Olivia asked me to do so,” he said. “But perhaps it is my duty to tell you,” and he leaned his head on his hand.
Bradstone read the note slowly, then emitted a low whistle.
“Mowle, Mowle. I seem to have heard the name before,” he said, as if trying to recall it. “I’ve an idea he is a kind of money-lender. Do you know him?”