“What, the fair-haired, bright-looking little maiden who looks as if she paints?”
“Paints be hanged!” cried Artingale, indignantly, “it’s her own sweet natural colour, bless her.”
“Oh, I say, my dear boy,” said Magnus, with mock concern, “I had no idea that you were in such a state as this.”
“Chaff away, old fellow, I don’t care. Call me in a fool’s paradise, if you like. I’ve flirted about long enough, but I never knew what it was before.”
“Then,” said Magnus, seriously, “you are what they call—in love?”
“Don’t I tell you, Mag, that I don’t care for your chaff. There, yes: in love, if you like to call it so, for I’ve won the sweetest little girl that ever looked truthfully at a man.”
“And the lady—does she reciprocate, and that sort of thing?”
“I don’t know: yes, I hope so. I’m afraid to be sure; it seems so conceited, for I’m not much of a fellow, you see.”
“Let’s see, it happened abroad, didn’t it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. I met them at Dinan, and then at Baden, and afterwards at Rome and in Paris.”