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.