“Indeed!” said the squire.
“Yes; I met him as I was driving in, I think. He was riding a remarkably good horse; a tall and exceedingly handsome young man, with a rather grave and pale face. The kind of man that attracts one’s attention. It was a dark chestnut horse.”
“No, that was not Bradstone,” said the squire; “that was a very great friend of mine—Mr. Faradeane.”
The good bishop looked puzzled.
“Dear me! A tall man with a mustache, and a—er—certain distinguished bearing?” he said.
“Yes, that was Mr. Faradeane,” said the squire. “Do you think you have seen him before?”
His lordship stopped and knit his brows.
“I could have been certain of it, if you had not mentioned his name; but I suppose I must be mistaken, for I do not remember it. And it was not your future son-in-law?”
“No, no,” said the squire. “You will see him this evening; I have asked him to dine with us.”
“Yes, yes, delighted,” purred the worthy bishop. “Strange mistake of mine, and yet I felt quite sure I had seen this Mr.——”