Faradeane rose abruptly and leaned his elbow upon the mantelshelf, and his head upon his hand, and there was silence for a moment; then he raised his head. “You are talking arrant nonsense,” he said, not sternly, but coldly. “Miss Vanley thinks no more, cares no more, is no more influenced by me than--than she is by her footman. Put such an absurd idea out of your foolish head. She does not give a thought to me, whom she has not seen for more than a few minutes, on as many days. Talk sense, Cherub, or--or go home to bed.” Bertie looked up at him with a firmness which was almost obstinacy. “You may bully me as much as you like, Faradeane,” he said, and not without a certain quiet dignity, the dignity of conviction. “But you won’t succeed in convincing me that you have not a great deal of influence over her. Why, I watched her--do I ever take my eyes off her?--every time you spoke; and whatever she was doing or whoever she was listening to, she turned to you at once. Besides, don’t you influence everybody? Haven’t you always been able to do anything you liked with anybody? And Olivia--oh, I could see to-night that she thought more of you than any one else.” The pale face seemed to grow hard and set as if with some hidden struggle, some suppressed pain. “That is enough of this nonsense,” he said. “Love works madness in some men’s brains. It has worked madness in yours. I am no more to Olivia”--he stopped, and swept his hand across his brow, with a gesture of annoyance--“I mean Miss Vanley, than the beggar at her gates.” Bertie rose, pale, too, and with an expression of disappointment. “Then--then you won’t do this for me, Faradeane?” “If you mean, will I go and ask Miss Vanley to accept you, go to her and propose for you, I certainly will not,” was the swift, almost stern response. “Go to her yourself! Why, do you think I am made of wood, clay, iron, that I can bear any better than you the mockery of her laugh, the scorn of those eyes----” Bertie stared at him. “Why, what will it matter to you?” he said, innocently. “You won’t be telling her that you love her--won’t be asking her to be your wife.” For the first time Faradeane’s face grew crimson, and his dark, sad eyes drooped. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to the chair. “Your madness is affecting me. It is catching. Sit down.” Bertie dropped meekly into the chair, and Faradeane paced up and down the room for a moment or two; then he stopped suddenly and looked down at the handsome, the girlish face, with its trusting patience. “You--you still persist in this insane idea of yours?” he asked, almost harshly. Bertie nodded. “Yes, I do. Faradeane, if you knew how much I rely on you----” Faradeane uttered an impatient exclamation.