There was so much subdued passion in the young man’s utterance that the artist glanced sidewise at him, to see that there was an intensity of expression in his eyes quite in keeping with his words, and following the direction of his gaze, he saw that it was fixed upon a barouche, drawn by a fine pair of bays, which champed their bits and flecked their satin coats with foam as they fretted impatiently at the restraint put upon them, and keeping them dawdling in a line of slow-moving carriages going east.
There was another line of carriages going west between the two young men and the equipage in question, and Magnus could see that his companion was in an agony of dread lest his salute should not be noticed, but, just at the right moment, the occupants of the barouche turned in their direction, acknowledged the raised hat of Lord Artingale, and, the pace just then increasing, the carriage passed on.
“Feel better?” said Magnus, cynically.
“Better? yes,” cried the young man, turning to him flushed and with a gratified smile upon his face. “There, don’t laugh at me, old fellow, I can’t help it.”
“I’m not going to laugh at you. But you seem to have got it badly.”
“Awfully,” replied the other.
“Shouldn’t have thought it of you, Harry. So those are the Mallow girls, eh?”
“Yes. Isn’t she charming?”
“What, that girl with the soft dreamy eyes? Yes, she is attractive.”
“No, man,” cried Artingale, impatiently; “that’s Julia. I mean the other.”