tone, that the younger man half turned and gazed at him, saying directly after—
“Thank you, old fellow; I’m not demonstrative, so just consider that I have given you a hearty grip of the hand.”
“All right,” was the gruff reply. “Hallo! here comes my brigand. By Jove, he’s a fine-looking specimen of the genus homo. He’s six feet two, if he’s an inch.”
Jock Morrison, who seemed at home beneath the trees, came slouching along with his hands deep in his pockets, with a rolling gait, the whole of one side at a time; there was an end of his loose cotton neckerchief between his teeth, and a peculiar satisfied smile in his eye which changed to a scowl of defiance as he saw that he was observed.
“I say, my man,” said Magnus, “would you give me a sitting, if I paid you?”
“Would I give you what?” growled the fellow. “I don’t let out cheers.”
Before Magnus could explain himself, the man had turned impatiently away, and gone on towards Kensington Gardens.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Artingale. “Our friend is not a model in any way. Have a cigarette, old fellow?”
The artist took one, and they stood smoking for a few minutes, till Artingale, who had been watchfully looking in the direction of the Achilles statue, suddenly threw down his half-smoked cigarette, for the Mallow carriage came into sight, and, as the young man had hoped, a voice cried “stop!” and the coachman drew up by the rails.
“Ah, Harry!” cried Cynthia, leaning forward to shake hands, and looking very bright and charming in the new floral bonnet that had caused her such anxiety that morning; “I didn’t know you had come up to town.”
“Didn’t you,” he replied, earnestly. “I knew you had. I went over to the rectory yesterday, and saw your brothers.”
“Oh, Harry!” cried Cynthia, blushing with pleasure.
“It didn’t matter; I drove over to do the horse good,” said the young man, shaking hands warmly with Julia in turn. “Here, let me introduce my friend Magnus. Julia, this is James Magnus. Cynthia, Magnus the artist.”
“Lord Artingale has often spoken of you, Mr. Magnus,” said Cynthia, looking at him rather coquettishly, in fact as if she was better used to London society than the quietude of a country rectory. “He has promised to bring me some day to see your pictures.”
“I shall only be too proud to show you what I am doing,” said the artist, meeting frankly the bright eyes that were shooting at him, but which gave him up directly as a bad mark, as he turned and began talking to Julia Mallow, who seemed to have become singularly quiet and dreamy, but who brightened up directly and listened eagerly, for she found that Magnus could talk sensibly and well.
“Are you going to stay up long?” said Lord Artingale, gazing imploringly in Cynthia’s eyes.
“I don’t know, indeed,” she replied, pouting. “Papa has brought mamma to see a fresh physician, but is so cross and strange now. He has been reforming the parish, as he calls it.”
“Yes; so I heard,” said Lord Artingale, laughing.
“And that has meant quarrelling with all the stupid townspeople, and setting them against us.”
“Not against you, Cynthia,” said the young man in a low voice. “I don’t believe that.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry,” she replied, laughing; “not now. But really it is very unpleasant, you know, for it makes papa so cross.”
“Of course it would,” said Lord Artingale, sympathisingly.
“And he talks about being so poor, and says that we shall all be ruined, and makes poor mamma miserable.”
“But he is not in want of money, is he?” cried the young man, eagerly.
“Nonsense! No: that’s how he always talks when Frank and Cyril are at home. Oh, Harry, I’m afraid they are dreadful boys.”
“Well, let’s try and make them better, eh, Cynthia?”
“I said you were not to talk nonsense now,” said Cynthia, shaking her pretty little head at him.
“Oh, murder!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Hadn’t you better drive on? Here’s Perry-Morton.”
“No, no,” exclaimed the younger girl, “it would look so rude. You silly thing, don’t blush so,” she whispered to her sister; “it looks so strange.”
“Good-morning—” said the subject of the thoughts of the group; and Mr. Perry-Morton descended poetically upon them, for he did not seem to walk up like an ordinary being. “Cynthia,” he continued, with an air of affectionate solicitude, and leaving out the full-stops he had placed after his two first words, “you look too flushed this morning, my child. Julia, is not the morning charming? Did you notice the effect of light and shade across the water?”
Julia Mallow, who looked troubled and bored, replied that she had not.
“You observed it, of course, Mr. Magnus?” continued the new-comer, with a sweet smile.
“No,” said the gentleman addressed, shortly. “I was talking to the ladies.”
“Ah! yes,” said Mr. Perry-Morton, sweetly; and he held his head on one side, as if he were posing for a masculine Penseroso. “But Nature will appeal so to our inmost heart.”
“Yes, she’s a jolly nuisance sometimes,” said Lord Artingale, but only to evoke a pitying smile from Mr. Perry-Morton, who, in spite of the decidedly annoyed looks of Cynthia and her lover, leaned his arm upon the carriage-door, and began talking to Julia, making James Magnus look like Harry Hotspur must have appeared when the “certain lord” came to him, holding the “pouncet box, which ever and anon he gave his nose.”
Cynthia Mallow made a pretty little grimace at Artingale, and, then turning with a smile to the worshipper of Nature, she stretched out her hand for the check-string so unmistakably that the gentlemen drew back, and raised their hats as the carriage rejoined the stream.
“Won’t you come and speak to the girls, Artingale?” said Mr. Perry-Morton in a softly imploring tone; and suppressing a sigh of annoyance, the young man suffered himself to be led off with his unwilling friend, while the carriage went slowly on towards Kensington Gardens, stopping with the stream again and again.
“Julia,” cried Cynthia, flushing with annoyance, as soon as they were alone, “has papa gone mad?”
“Hush! the servants will hear you,” said her sister, reprovingly.
“I can’t help it, dear, it makes me so excited that I can’t bear it. How you can let that hateful creature come and patronise and monopolise, and seem to constrict you as he does, like a horrible short fat snake, I can’t imagine. Papa must be going mad to encourage it. If he were as rich as Cassius or Croesus, or whatever the man’s name was, it ought to be no excuse. I declare if you do not pluck up spirit and make a fight, I will. You can’t like him.”
“Oh,
