“Well, then, what is it?” Magnus turned upon him slowly, and gazed at him fixedly.
“Harry,” he said, “you love Cynthia?”
“By George! yes, with all my heart,” cried the young man, enthusiastically.
“Yes,” said Magnus, “I am sure you do. Then it should be the easier for you to think of a love where a man looks up so to the woman he worships that he would sooner suffer than cause her a moment’s pain, when, knowing that she does not—that she cannot return his affection—”
“Hold hard. Now look here, my dear Magnus, don’t let sentiment take the bit in its teeth and bolt with you, or else we shall have a smash. Now I say, look here, old man, why cannot Julia return your love?”
“It is impossible. She is engaged.”
“Bah! what has such an engagement to do with it? I tell you I believe that poor little Julia is perfectly heart-whole, and that the flower of her affection—I say, that’s pretty, isn’t it?—I told you not to let sentiment bolt with you, and I am talking like a valentine! But seriously, old fellow, I am sure that Julia detests Perry-Morton.”
“How can you be sure?” said Magnus, gloomily.
“Very easily, my cynical old sage. Don’t sisters indulge in confidences, and when one of the confidential sisters has a young man, as people in the kitchen call it, doesn’t she confide things to him?”
Magnus looked at him for a moment or two excitedly, but a gloom seemed to settle upon him directly after, and he shook his head.