“Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a nice girl.”
“Don’t be a fool,” was the answer, given with such intensity that Artingale was startled.
“Fool, be hanged! I’m in earnest. Wait a bit, and we’ll go up to her together, and then I’ll be off and leave you. You’d stand no end of a chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so.”
“Don’t be an ass, Harry,” said Magnus, “you seem to be happy enough. Let the poor little body be.”
“Well, I don’t want to quarrel,” said Artingale, “but if ever a fellow was a fool or an ass I should think it would be when he turned up his nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by the world.”
“Oh, she’s nice enough,” said Magnus, gruffly. “Are those two brothers going to marry those stained-glass virgins?” he continued, as Cyril joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.
“I wish to heaven they would,” said Artingale, earnestly. “Hang the brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have brothers! At last!—I’m off. There’s the telegram.”
The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow’s eye to that of the speaker; and the message was,—
“You dear stupid old goose, why don’t you come?”
For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn.