On reaching his friend’s house in Lowndes-square, the servant told him that his lordship had gone into the Park with her ladyship. They were in the open carriage; and wondering at his own weariness, Magnus followed, unconsciously walking straight to the very spot where, what seemed a lifetime back, he and Artingale had leaned over the rail, and first seen poor Julia’s fate.
He did not recall the fact at first, but stood watching the carriages, thinking how much he would like to meet his old friend; and his face lit up with a smile that had been a stranger to it of late.
For a long time it seemed as if his journey had been in vain, and he was listlessly scanning the long lines of vehicles, when suddenly he heard his name uttered, and a carriage was drawn up close to the rails, with Artingale and Cynthia therein, both looking, if not so young, as bright and happy as ever.
“My dear old fellow,” cried Artingale, grasping his friend’s hand, as Cynthia possessed herself of the other, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. But jump in, and we’ll go home at once. We’ll have such a dinner, and those dining-room curtains shall be incensed, and no mistake, to-night.”
“No, no, not now,” said Magnus; and in spite of all his friend’s pressure he declined.
“Then I shall come with you,” cried Artingale. “Cynthy, may I go?”
“I suppose you must,” she said merrily. “Mr Magnus, you are the only gentleman to whom I would give him up.”
Then there was a pleasant chat for a time, the carriage drove on, and Artingale and his friend were left standing by the Park rails.
“Not one word,” said Magnus to himself; “Julia is indeed dead.”
“Why, Mag, old man, this is the very spot where—”