Ought to have gone into a cavalry regiment
early in life; what fine leaders they'd have made, to be sure, in
a dash for the guns or a charge against a battery! But they seem
to have done well for themselves in their own way: carved out their
own fortunes, each after his fashion. Very plucky young fellows.
One of them's a painter, and one's a journalist; and both of them
are making their mark in their own world. I really admire them."
And on the way to the station, that moment, Mr. Montague Nevitt,
as he lit his cigarette, was saying to Cyril, with an approving
smile, "Your Miss Clifford's pretty."
"Yes," Cyril answered drily, "she's not bad looking. She looked
her best to-day. And she's capital company."
But Guy broke out unabashed into a sudden burst of speech.
"Not bad looking!" he cried contemptuously. "Is that all you have
to say of her? And you a painter, too! Why, she's beautiful! She's
charming! If Cyril was shut up in a tunnel with HER---"
He broke off suddenly.
And for the rest of the way home he spoke but seldom. It was all
too true. The two Warings were cast in the self-same mould. What
attracted one, it was clear, no less surely and certainly attracted
the other.
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