“But does she show any liking for Magnus?”
“N-no, I’m afraid not. But does that matter, dear?”
“Well, I should think not,” replied Artingale thoughtfully. “Magnus loves her very much, and I’m sure no girl could help loving him in return. I almost feel jealous when he talks to you.”
“No, you don’t, Harry,” retorted Cynthia, recommencing operations upon the obstinate lock of hair.
“Then what is to be done?” said Artingale, at last, after another long display of unselfishness.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Harry. It almost seems as if Julia was ready to let herself go with the stream. She is so quiet and strange and reserved. I don’t know what to make of her. She keeps fancying she sees that man.”
“But she don’t see him.”
“Oh no: it is impossible; but she is so changed. I find her sometimes sitting and thinking, looking straight before her as if she were in a dream. Bring Mr Magnus here more often.”
“Here?”
“Well, no; to Lawford. I’ll coax papa into asking him. Oh, I say, what a capital idea!” cried Cynthia, clapping her hands. “I have it. Her portrait!”