"Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry, for papa is rich."

"But surely Julia cannot care for him?"

"She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry."

"Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and take her part?"

"I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable.

Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry."

"Yes."

"Don't you feel jealous?"

"Horribly," he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about their host's last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently all in pain.

"Here," he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, "I want to take you to a lady."

"No, no--nonsense. I don't like ladies, Harry."

"Don't be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and take her down to supper. Why, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. There--no. Get some one else."

"Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your pictures to her. Poor girl, she's miserable. They are trying to hook her on to Perry-Morton."

"Why, of course. People say they are engaged."

"And I say she isn't. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow, why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Oh, nothing. Come along." The artist, after a moment's further hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening pa.s.sed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet, grave conversation of Lord Artingale's friend.

Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and the clattering of uneasy horses' feet on the paving fronting the poet's home. At last the cry arose--"Mr Mallow's carriage stops the way;" and the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a deep-voiced "Coming down."

There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall, forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.

The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.

"Why didn't Artingale bring down Julia?" said Frank, scowling at James Magnus. "Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down."

"Oh, it's all right," said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne.

"Come along."

The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as Artingale's friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage steps plainer, and to keep the ladies' dresses from the wheels.

James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white arm.

She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown bearded face close to hers.

It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the door closed, the footman shouted "Home," and the horses sprang forward, hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.

PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY.

A LITTLE NARRATIVE.

"Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about."

"I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry."

"That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal makes me try to tell you with all my heart."

"Now, Harry, once for all, I won't have it," said the little maiden, holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. "I want you to be straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do really like me, don't pay me silly, sickly compliments."

"I'll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live," he said, eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.

"Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will do--well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am in very, very great trouble."

"But would you like me to tell you all about it?"

"Every word, Harry," said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she laid her little white hand in his.

For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale's love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion.

Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.

"Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better."

"Oh, you foolish boy!"

It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.

"Well, it was like this," said Artingale. "James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie's arm."

"Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy."

"Not much fancy about it, certainly," said the young man, grimly, "unless it's P.R. fancy."

"P.R. fancy, Harry; what's that?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied, hastily. "It's a term they give to fighting.

Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel."

"That's well," said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; "I like that."

"Do you?"