“Break his cursed neck—if I can,” cried Artingale, in a low, angry growl.
“No, no: don’t go,” she whispered, catching at him. “You may be hurt.”
“One of us will be,” he said, hoarsely.
“But, Harry, please!”
She looked at him so appealingly that he took her hands in his.
“Cynthia—my darling!” he whispered; and if they had been alone he would have caught her in his arms.
But they were not alone, and bending down he whispered—
“You have made me so happy, but you would not have me be a cur. Take your sister home.”
Without another word he turned and started off down the lane at a trot, Cynthia watching him till he was out of sight.
“Oh, Harry! If you are hurt!” she whispered to herself; and then, recalling her sister’s trouble, she ran to her side, where Perry-Morton was making a pretence of affording support that was not required.