Faradeane raised his head with a warning glance, and Bertie, coloring crimson, stumbled on: “I--I beg your pardon; Faradeane, I mean. It’s just this: I’m half beside myself to-night. Being with her all this evening has set me all a-quiver, and--and the sight of that fellow Bradstone has upset me so terribly that--that I must--I must know my fate. I can’t go on any longer! I’ve got a dread upon me that if I don’t speak out now, at once, and tell her how I love her, and--and ask her to be my wife, that I--that this fellow will get before me, and----” He stopped and wiped his brow with a hand that quivered. Faradeane looked at him with his dark, sad eyes. “And you came to ask my advice? You shall have it. Obey the impulse, Bertie; go and tell her you love her, as you suggest----” He paused, stopped by a look in Bertie’s eyes. “Well?” “I--I--that isn’t what I wanted,” said the Cherub. “No? What do you want, then?” “I--I want you to do it for me,” said Bertie, in a low voice. For a moment Faradeane sat motionless and speechless; then he laughed. It was a strange laugh, fuller of pain than of mirth, almost a laugh of bitterness. “You--want--me to tell her?” he said, slowly. “Yes,” said Bertie, in his eagerness leaning forward with clasped hands. “That’s what I want. Try as I will, I can’t find the pluck. You’ll think I’m a coward, I know. I can’t help it. If you only felt as I do! I tell you, old fellow, that when I think of going to her, and saying--what I should have to say--I--I--my voice leaves me. You don’t know what she is. She might laugh at me, or she might turn on me with one of those cold, far-away looks in her eyes; and--and both ways of taking it would--would settle me.” He paused for want of breath. “Now, you--you could tell her how I feel; you could say just the right thing, and--and convince her that I love her so dearly that I’d rather die than live without her.” Faradeane laughed again; the same sad, half-bitter laugh. “Don’t laugh at me, for Heaven’s sake,” implored Bertie. “It’s fun to you, but it’s death to me, Faradeane. And don’t refuse me. I know what I’m about. I know what she thinks of you--yes, already, though she has only known you for a few days. A man who loves a girl as I do Olivia--well, he gets sharp, and notices every little thing about her, every look and word, and I know that she would listen to you, that you could persuade----” “Stop! Are you mad?” exclaimed Faradeane, sternly. Bertie looked up, and saw that the handsome face had grown white, almost pallid. “What have I said?” he exclaimed, penitently. “Have I offended you? I didn’t mean to do so. What I said is true. You have an influence over her----”