Magnus began to walk up and down the room, looking agitated.
“What would you do?” he said at last.
“Well,” said Artingale, after a pause, “I feel greatly disposed to take the law in my, or our, own hands.”
“Why do you say our?” asked Magnus, hoarsely.
“Because I look upon it as your case as much as mine. Look here, old fellow, Cynthia and I both think you are the man who would make Julia happy, and if you don’t win her it is your own fault.”
“And Perry-Morton?”
“Hang Perry-Morton! Confound him for a contemptible, colourless bit of canvas—or, no, I ought to say brass, for the fellow has the impudence of a hundred. A man without a pretension to art in any way pretending to be a patron and connoisseur, and, above all, to be my brother-in-law. Hang the fellow! I hate him; Cynthia hates him; and we won’t have him at any price. No, dear boy, we want you, and if you don’t go in and win and wear Julia, why, it is your own fault.”
Magnus turned to the window, and stood looking out dreamily.
“Faint heart never won fair lady, Mag,” cried Artingale, merrily; “and how you, who have always been like a Mentor to this wandering Telemachus, can be such a coward about Julia, I can’t conceive. Not afraid of the brothers, are you?”
“Pish! Absurd! How can she help her brothers!”