"There he is," she said, with a gleeful little laugh. "No it isn't, I'm sure. What does it mean? What is he doing there?" PART TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN. AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. "I can't go, and I won't go," said Artingale. "It's bad enough to have to be at the church to-morrow and see that poor little lass sacrificed, with everybody looking on smiling and simpering except, the bridesmaids, who are all expected to shed six tears. "Six tears each, and six bridesmaids; that's thirty-six tears. I'd almost bet a fiver that those two pre-Raphaelite angels will each be provided with an antique lachrymatory designed by their dear brother, and they'll drop their tears therein and stopper them up. "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?" "Yes: I feel that I must. But I hate the whole affair. I wish the brute would break his neck. Ready?" "Yes," was the reply; and going out to the waiting hansom, they were soon run down to the club, where the choicest little dinner Artingale could select was duly placed before them. But somehow, nothing was nice. Artingale's hunger seemed to have departed, and he followed his friend's example, and ate mechanically. The dry sherry was declared to be watery, and the promised champagne, though a choice brand and from a selected _cuvee_, was not able to transmit its sparkle to the brains of those who partook.