“Then you want to see poor Julie married to that dreadful Perry-Morton?”
“No, I don’t; I want her to have dear old James Magnus. I say, Cynthy. We won’t be selfish, eh? We won’t think about ourselves, will we? Let’s try and make other people happy.”
“Yes, Harry, we will.”
It was wonderful to see the sincerity with which these two young people spoke, and how eagerly they set to making plans for other people’s happiness—a process which seemed to need a great deal of clinging together for mutual support, twining about of arms, and looking long and deeply into each other’s eyes for counsel. Then Artingale’s hair was a little too much over his forehead for the thoughts of Cynthia to flow freely, and it had to be smoothed back by a little white hand with busy fingers. But that hair was obstinate, and it was not until the little pinky fingers had several times been moistened between Cynthia’s ruddy lips and drawn over the objecting strands of hair that they could be forced to retain the desired position.
After the performance of such a kindly service Artingale would have been ungrateful if he had not thanked her in the most affectionate way his brain could suggest, a proceeding of which, with all due modesty, the young lady seemed highly to approve.
Then Harry’s tie was not quite right, and the new collar stud had to be admired, and a great deal more of this very unselfish eau sucrée had to be imbibed before Julia again came on the tapis, her entrance being heralded by a sister’s sigh.
“Poor Julie!” said Cynthia.
“Oh, yes; poor Julia. Now, look here, pet, I dare say it’s very shocking, and if it were known the Rector would be sure to give me my congé.”
“Oh, I would never think of telling him, Harry.”
“That’s right. Well, as I was saying, if she marries Perry-Morton she will be miserable.”