“And if we find this fellow annoying—the—the ladies?” said Magnus, in a curiously hesitating way.
Artingale set his teeth hard, and spoke through them.
“The blackguard’s too big to treat like a black beetle. But let that rest, and remember the saying attributed to the celebrated Mrs Glasse of cookery fame—a saying, by the way, that I’m told is not to be found in her book—let us first catch our hare, which in this case is a fox, or rather I ought to say a wolf. We’ll decide afterwards how we will cook him.”
Magnus nodded, and walked up and down the room in a quick, nervous fashion.
“That’s right! that’s capital,” cried Artingale, merrily. “I thought my news would make that sluggish blood of yours begin to move. By George, there’s nothing like a genuine love to make a man of you.”
“Or a woman,” said Magnus, gloomily.
“Get out! Rubbish! Come, come, no retrograde movements: forward’s the word. Now the next thing is for the knight to meet the lady in whose defence he was wounded. I’ll manage a meeting, or Cynthy will, and if you don’t make good use of your time I’ll never forgive you. We’ll speak to the Rector after you have won a little on poor Julia. He’s a good fellow, and wants his girls to be happy. But by Jove, Magnus, there’s nothing like a rattling good crack on the head.”
“Why?”
“Excites sympathy. Young lady finds out your value. Why, my dear old boy, you look a hundred pounds better. Here, take your hat, and let’s go and have a ramble. The sea air and a bit of exercise will beat all the doctor’s tonics.”
Magnus said nothing, but taking the cigar offered to him, he lit up, and the two young men strolled off together, along by the sea.