His brother's last remark had not penetrated to it.
Wentworth became scarlet.

He made an impatient movement.

Then part of the sense of his brother's last words tardily reached Michael's blurred faculties.
"An old friend of mine," he said, vaguely flurried.

"What old friend ?" "Fay," said Wentworth, biting his lip.

"Have you forgotten Fay _entirely_?
How she tried to save you, how she grieved for you?
Her great goodness to you?
And what she is to _me_!" "No," said Michael.