“No, I am glad to say,” said Faradeane, grimly. “I should not like him to know me as I was—and as I am! Was that your sister with whom I saw you this morning?” he asked, rather abruptly.
A beautiful rose tint suffused Bertie’s face.
“No, no!” he replied. “That was Miss Vanley.”
Faradeane nodded.
“The daughter of the squire here? I have heard of him through my man.”
“Yes,” said Bertie; “Olivia. Didn’t—didn’t you think she was very beautiful, Faradeane?”
Faradeane turned to the fireplace to knock his pipe out, and nodded.
“Yes,” he said, slowly.
“I think she is lovely!” said Bertie, in a low voice. “Olivia was always beautiful; but now—I hadn’t seen her for two years,” he went on, “and—and she startled me. She has grown into a woman. I wish you knew her, old fellow. She is as good as she is beautiful. She is just the girl you would approve of, I know. You always said that women were stupid; you wouldn’t say it of Olivia. Not that I mean that she’s clever in the way of knowing all the things women go in for now; no, not clever in that way; but—but——Oh, I can’t describe her! You must know her to understand what she is like.”
The other man watched, with a smile, the handsome face, as it grew rapt and enthusiastic.