“Here,” he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, “I want to take you to a lady.”
“No, no—nonsense. I don’t like ladies, Harry.”
“Don’t be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and take her down to supper. Why, what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. There—no. Get some one else.”
“Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your pictures to her. Poor girl, she’s miserable. They are trying to hook her on to Perry-Morton.”
“Why, of course. People say they are engaged.”
“And I say she isn’t. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow, why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Oh, nothing. Come along.” The artist, after a moment’s further hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening passed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet, grave conversation of Lord Artingale’s friend.
Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and the clattering of uneasy horses’ feet on the paving fronting the poet’s home. At last the cry arose—“Mr Mallow’s carriage stops the way;” and the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a deep-voiced “Coming down.”