“But that would never be if she knew of your love.”
“Harry, my dear boy,” said the artist sadly, “it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned.”
“Yes; of course.”
“And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend.”
“Yes. Well, where’s the madness?”
Magnus shook his head sadly.
“Why should I tell you?” he said. “I have studied nature too long not to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse with—with—her without knowing something of her heart?”
“Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure,” cried Artingale.
“I don’t know that,” said Magnus, sadly; “but this I do know—that no word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb.”
“Nonsense, man,” said Artingale, merrily. “Why, Mag, where’s your courage? Up, lad, and try. Don’t lie there and let that piece of imitation human being carry her off.”