“Oh, dear! This is a funny world, and I’m very fond of my pretty Cynthy, who’s a regular little trump; but I’m getting deuced hungry. I’ll go and hunt up old Mag, and we’ll have a bit of dinner together, and then go to the play. Liven him up a bit, poor old man. Hansom!”
A two-wheeled hawk swooped down, and carried him off to the studio of James Magnus, where that gentleman was busy with a piece of crayon making a design for a large cartoonlike picture, and after a good deal of pressing he consented to go to the club and dine with his friend.
“I’m afraid you’ll find me very dull company,” said Magnus, sadly.
“Then I’ll make you lively, my boy. I’m off duty to-night, and I feel like a jolly bachelor. Champagne; coffee afterwards, and unlimited cigars.”
“What a boy you are, Harry!” said the artist, quietly. “How you do seem to enjoy life!”
“Well, why shouldn’t I? Plenty of troubles come that one must face; why make others?”
“Is—is she to be married to-morrow, Harry?” said Magnus, quietly.
“I say, hadn’t we better taboo that subject, old fellow?” said Artingale, quickly.
“No. Why should we? Do you think I am not man enough to hear it calmly?” Artingale looked at him searchingly. “Well, yes, I hope so; and since you have routed out the subject, I suppose I must answer your question. Yes, she is, and more blame to you.”
“We will not discuss that, Harry,” said the other, sadly. “I know well enough that it was not in me to stir a single pulse in Julia Mallow’s veins, and I have accepted my fate. Are you going to the wedding?”