“But not so nice as, as—”
“Cynthia,” said the other, innocently. “No: of course not.”
Magnus burst out laughing, and his friend looked at him inquiringly.
“I could not help it, old fellow,” exclaimed Magnus; “you did seem so innocent over it. But never mind that. Plunge head foremost into the sweetest life idyll you can, and, worldly-minded old sinner as I am, I will only respect you the more.”
He spoke so sincerely, and in such a feeling 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.”