“You are thinking that I am a weak-minded kind of idiot, eh, Cherub?”
Bertie gave a little start.
“I——No, I wasn’t thinking about you, old fellow,” he replied. “I was thinking of Olivia. How beautiful she looked this morning!”
“Yes,” assented Faradeane, succinctly.
“I think her lovelier and sweeter every time I see her,” continued Bertie, with a sigh. Then he pulled himself together. “But I say, fancy finding her and you chatting together like old friends!”
“Yes, and after my solemn declaration the other day that nothing should induce me to know her or any one else,” retorted Faradeane. “But men propose and the gods dispose. Only this morning I refused to see her father, and now——”
“I’m glad, awfully glad,” said Bertie, eagerly. “I can’t tell you how delighted I was to see you with her. And I tell you what, old fellow: you may consider yourself highly honored. It isn’t every one Miss Olivia is free and—and pleasant with at starting. As a rule, people think her stiff and—and—cold, don’t you know, till they know more of her.”
Faradeane nodded, with his dark eyes bent on the ground.
“Yes, she could be stiff and reserved,” he said, more to himself than to Bertie.
“Rather! They all call her proud, and so she is, in a right way. God bless her! She is everything that is right to me. And you have promised to spout for them, old fellow! I’m awfully glad of that, too.”