“Yes, dear,” said Artingale, one of whose fingers was caught in a sunny maze. “But now, Cynthy, my pet, revenons à nos moutons.”
“Very well, sir,” she said shyly, “revenons à nos moutons.”
“So the wedding is to be on the fourth?”
“Yes,” said Cynthia, with a sigh, “on the fourth—not quite a month, Harry. Where’s James Magnus?”
“Shut up in his studio, splashing the paint about like a madman. He never comes out hardly. He has cut me, and spends most of his time with that barrister fellow who was to have married Sage Portlock.”
“Luke Ross! Oh! Are they friends?”
“Thick as thieves,” said Artingale. “I suppose they sit and talk about disappointed love, and that sort of thing.”
“Do they?” cried Cynthia.
“Oh, I don’t know, of course. By Jove, though, Cynthy, that Ross is a splendid fellow; no one would ever have thought he was only a tanner’s son.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes whose son a man is,” said Cynthia, demurely. “I’ve always noticed though that poor people’s sons are very clever, and noblemen’s sons very stupid.”