“Yes, I know what you mean. You have almost doubted my sanity; have felt inclined to set me down as mad.” He put his hands on Bertie’s shoulders, and looked down at him with an expression which haunted the light-hearted Cherub for many a day. “Bertie, I wish I were mad!” There was a moment’s pause. “Yes, I wish I could persuade myself that it was a horrible dream, and wake up----” He stretched out his arms, and drew a long breath, then let them fall to his side and turned away. Bertie rose and went to the window. It is not “the thing” to exhibit emotion, even on behalf of one’s dearest friend; but there was a suspicious moisture in Bertie’s blue eyes. He turned to him after a moment or two. “One question more, Faradeane, about your affairs. They must give you a great deal of trouble, anxiety. Can I do nothing to help you respecting them?” Faradeane shook his head. “No, thanks, Cherub. Just before I fled I placed all of my business affairs in the hands of Elsmere, my solicitor. He does everything; acts as my other self, in fact, under a power of attorney, as they call it. He is the only man who knows my whereabouts, or my present name, excepting yourself, and I can trust you both, thank Heaven. I have given out that I am a woman-hater--there is more truth in that, by the way,” he put in grimly, “than you think; and my man has instructions to allow no petticoat to enter the premises. I dare say the simple folks down here will be rather curious; but they will get over it in time. At present I rather think they imagine that I am a little mad, and give me a wide berth. The dog, too, is supposed to be dangerous--he is as quiet and gentle as a lamb, poor old fellow!--and so I fancy I shall be left alone. And now that’s enough, and more than enough about myself. Let us talk about a far more interesting subject--you; where are you staying--what are you doing?” “I am staying with my father,” said Bertie. “You have never met him?” “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.