"Brother Cornelius," the Artist went on, "this has been a most eventful year for us. We have been rudely disturbed from the artistic life of contemplation and patient work into which we had gradually dropped. We have been hurried—hurried, I say, brother—into Action, perhaps prematurely——"
Cornelius grasped his brother's hand, but said nothing.
"You, Cornelius, have engaged yourself to be married."
Cornelius dropped his brother's hand. "Pardon me, Humphrey; it is you that is engaged to Phillis Fleming."
"I am nothing of the sort, Cornelius," the other returned sharply. "I am astonished that you should make such a statement."
"One of us certainly is engaged to the young lady. And as certainly it is not I. 'Let your brother Humphrey hope,' she said. Those were her very words. I do think, brother, that it is a little ungenerous, a little ungenerous of you, after all the trouble I took on your behalf, to try to force this young lady on me."
Humphrey's cheek turned pallid. He plunged his hands into his silky beard, and walked up and down the room gesticulating.
"I went down on purpose to tell Phillis about him. I spoke to her of his ardour. She said she appreciated—said she appreciated it, Cornelius. I even went so far as to say that you offered her a virgin heart—perilling my own soul by those very words—a virgin heart"—he laughed melodramatically. "And after that German milkmaid! Ha, ha! The Poet and the milkmaid!"
Cornelius by this time was red with anger. The brothers, alike in so many things, differed in this, that, when roused to passion, while Humphrey grew white Cornelius grew crimson.
"And what did I do for you?" he cried out. The brothers were now on opposite sides of the table, walking backwards and forwards with agitated strides. "I told her that you brought her a heart which had never beat for another—that, after your miserable little Roman model! An artist not able to resist the charms of his own model!"