“Don’t you try,” said Bradstone, with a malicious enjoyment of her embarrassment. “Let Faradeane do it; he knows the trick of the fastening, I dare say.”
“It is very simple,” said Faradeane; “will you allow me?” and he forced his voice into a tone of ordinary politeness.
She bent her head, and he touched the hidden spring lightly; but, as the necklet parted, his fingers touched her, and her face and neck grew crimson as she raised her eyes to his face.
Then she took the necklet from his hand, and without waiting to put it in its case, left the room.
Bartley Bradstone thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked after her, and then at Faradeane’s pale, set face.
“What ingratitude!” he said, half-mockingly and with a loud laugh. “She didn’t even say ‘Thank you!’”
Olivia went up to her own room, her heart beating, her neck still burning where Faradeane’s fingers had touched, and as she opened the door she started and uttered an exclamation. But it was only Bessie who rose to meet her.
“Bessie!” she exclaimed. “How you startled me!” and she sank into a chair, panting.
Bessie looked at her gravely, and brought her a bottle of sal volatile from the dressing-table; but Olivia put it away with a faint laugh.
“No, no; I am not so badly frightened as that,” she said; “but I did not expect to see any one, and”—with a piteous little smile—“I have grown nervous lately, Bessie.”