“You have described her very well, Cherub,” he said, quietly. “‘To know her is to love her, and to love her is a liberal education,’” he quoted.
Bertie’s face flushed.
“That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “You always put things so well, Cly——I—I beg your pardon, I mean Faradeane!” he stammered.
“Be careful, Bertie,” said the other, gravely. “Try and get used to my name. A slip at an unwary moment and I am”—he shrugged his shoulders—“ruined. Yes, Miss Vanley is something more than lovely. It is a face ‘that carries goodness in its eyes.’ You ought to be very happy, Cherub.”
Bertie grew scarlet as a poppy.
“No, no,” he said, hurriedly. “You—you have quite misunderstood. I—I——There is nothing between us—no engagement, I mean. I—I don’t think, I’ve no reason to think, that she cares——Why, don’t you see, dear old fellow, that I’m not worthy to—to——Oh, no!”
“No?” said Faradeane. “I thought——Well, you are still happy in loving her,” he added. “Yes, though you never have an iota of hope, though you may never dare to tell her of your love, though your lips may never touch her hands, you are still happy in loving so sweet, so good a woman.”
His voice had grown very earnest, and there was a subtle ring of pain in it that found an echo in Bertie’s heart. He hung his head.
“I know what you mean,” he said, in a low voice.
“‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’” said Faradeane. “Better to have loved an angel from afar than——” He stopped short suddenly. “But there’s every hope for you, Cherub,” he said, with a smile.