“Don’t talk like that, Harry,” said Cynthia, quietly; “you hurt me.”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, “but it makes me mad to see your people ready to sell her to that man.”
“Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry, for papa is rich.”
“But surely Julia cannot care for him?”
“She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry.”
“Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and take her part?”
“I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable. Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you feel jealous?”
“Horribly,” he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about their host’s last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently all in pain.