Faradeane, carefully avoiding looking in Olivia’s direction, shook his head.
“I feel honored by Bradstone’s request, sir, but I am sorry to say that I am engaged on Wednesday.”
“What!” exclaimed Bartley Bradstone. “You don’t mean to say that you are not coming to the wedding? Why, I should fancy you will be the only man in the county who won’t be there—won’t he, Olivia?”
She made a slight gesture which might mean anything, but did not raise her eyes.
“Then my room will be more acceptable than my company,” said Faradeane, with a smile. “You will have no difficulty in getting some one to fill so honorable a post, Bradstone. I am sorry I cannot.”
“Oh, but you must manage to come to the wedding and the breakfast—or whatever they call it now; it can’t very well be breakfast at half-past three o’clock in the afternoon. You must come, Faradeane—mustn’t he, Olivia?”
She looked up for a moment, and past Faradeane, avoiding his eyes.
“Mr. Faradeane says he is engaged,” she said, quietly.
“Oh, but——” began Bradstone; but Faradeane stopped him with a certain compression of the lips which Bartley Bradstone remembered seeing on his face when he seized him by the arm outside the terrace.
“It is impossible,” he said, almost curtly.