“My face is that of an unsuccessful ambassador, is it? Yes, my mission has failed, Cherub. I am sorry.” Bertie turned his back to him and was silent for a moment; then he said, hoarsely: “What did she say? Tell me.” “What did she say?” repeated Faradeane, dropping into a chair and passing his hand over his brow with a weary gesture, as a smile of bitter self-mockery shone for a moment in his eyes. “I don’t know. What does it matter?” “You don’t know?” echoed Bertie, turning to him. “For Heaven’s sake, try and remember! I--I can bear it, whatever it was. Did she laugh?” and his lips quivered. “Laugh! No, she didn’t laugh much,” replied Faradeane, grimly, as the vision of the slim, graceful form lying full length in its _abandon_ of misery rose before him. “Then she took it seriously? What did you say to her, Faradeane?” “I said all I could. I did my best. Believe that, Bertie. I can’t tell you what I said, but I pleaded as if”--he paused, and his lips came together tightly--“as if I were pleading for myself. I could do no more. Would to Heaven I had not done so much!” bitterly. “And what did she reply? Did she say ‘No’ straight out?” “No, she didn’t.” “Then there is--there may be some hope! You took her by surprise; she was frightened, perhaps. She’ll think it over,” said Bertie, excitedly. Faradeane rose and laid his hand on his shoulder, firmly, yet, pityingly. “Cherub, there is no hope,” he said, in a low, grave voice. “I should be your bitterest enemy, instead of your best friend, if I allowed you to think that there was. There is none. Accept it, Bertie, once and for all. Be a man; there is no hope--there never has been. If you had pleaded for yourself, if an angel had pleaded for you, instead of me, it would have been the same.” “She--she never cared for me?” “Yes, she cares for you as a sister cares for a brother. Be content with that----” “Content!” Bertie burst out. “Content! You are mad, Faradeane!” “I dare say,” was the calm, sad assent. “We are all more or less mad, Cherub; but I would rather be loved as a brother by Olivia--Miss Vanley--than as a husband by any other woman----” He stopped abruptly, and Bertie stared at him. “You can’t know what love--such love as mine--is!” he said. Faradeane smiled. “Perhaps not,” he said, grimly. “I tell you--but what is the use of talking? Faradeane, my life is ruined. I don’t care what becomes of me. I staked everything upon her; I loved her as no man ever loved a woman before. I--oh, old fellow, tell me the truth! Is there no hope for me?” Faradeane shook his head. “Not a fragment,” he said, solemnly. “If I--if I went to her myself----” “As you should have done at first,” said Faradeane, grimly. “Would to Heaven you had. No, Bertie, none. Don’t go to her. Accept my report. Why should you harass her? I tell you that there is no more chance of her marrying you than there is of her marrying--the Sultan of Mocha. Be a man, Cherub. There are other women----”