“Who? where? my dear Miss Julia? Where is the scoundrel?” cried Perry-Morton, excitedly.
“Just down the road a little way,” said Cynthia. “I hope you will go and beat him well.”
“A big scoundrel of a fellow?” cried Mr Perry-Morton.
“Yes, and he looks like a gipsy,” said Cynthia, innocently. “He said something so insulting to my sister.”
“Hush, pray, Cynthia,” cried the latter, faintly.
“Oh, poor girl, she is going to faint. Miss Mallow, pray look up. I am here. Take my arm. Let me hasten with you home. This scoundrel shall be pursued, and brought to justice.”
“I am better now,” said Julia, speaking more firmly. “No, thank you, Mr Perry-Morton, I can walk well enough.”
“Oh, I cannot leave you like this, dear Miss Julia,” whispered Perry-Morton, while Cynthia’s eyes were sparkling with malicious glee, as she turned them upon Artingale, whose face, however, startled her into seriousness, as he caught her arm, gripping it so hard that it gave her pain.
“Tell me, Cynthia,” he said, hoarsely, “what sort of a fellow was this?”
“A big, gipsy-looking man, and there was a dirty-looking fellow with him,” faltered the girl, for her lover’s look alarmed her. “But stop, Harry; what are you going to do?”