For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale’s love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion. Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.
“Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better.”
“Oh, you foolish boy!”
It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.
“Well, it was like this,” said Artingale. “James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie’s arm.”
“Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy.”
“Not much fancy about it, certainly,” said the young man, grimly, “unless it’s P.R. fancy.”
“P.R. fancy, Harry; what’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, hastily. “It’s a term they give to fighting. Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel.”
“That’s well,” said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; “I like that.”