“Well?” said Mr. Faradeane, standing over him and looking at him with a strange smile, which was as sad as the shadow that dwelt in his eyes. “Well?”
“Well!” repeated Bertie, almost glaring at him. “My dear——”
“Faradeane,” interposed the other.
“What on earth does this mean?” continued Bertie.
Instead of replying, his companion took a cigar case from the mantelshelf and tossed it to him, then slowly and deliberately lit a pipe.
Bertie took a cigar, but instead of lighting it, stared round the room at the old oak chairs and table, at the gun and pistol rack over the fireplace, at the books in the bookcase, at the grave and singularly handsome face of his host.
“A light?” said Mr. Faradeane, with a smile which was almost an amused one. “Better smoke, my dear Bertie; there is nothing like tobacco on these occasions.”
Bertie pliantly and helplessly lit his cigar, and, still staring at the dark, thoughtful face, said:
“Well, this beats——”
“Cock fighting,” filled in Mr. Faradeane. “Fire off all your battery of astonishment, my dear Bertie. Don’t mind me.”