Identifier: rolandcashel01leve (find matches)
Title: Roland Cashel
Year: 1855 (1850s)
Authors: Lever, Charles James, 1806-1872 Browne, Hablot Knight, 1815-1882
Subjects:
Publisher: London : Chapman and Hall
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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rpnes- of rebuke there was no misunderstanding. Eli, my Leddy, bo it may, hut ye need na bate mine off, for a that!and so saying, the discomfited veteran fell hack in high dudgeon. Th- party now broke into the two and threes invariable on such oc-casions, and while Mrs. Kennyfeck and her elder daughter paid theirmost devoted attentions to Lady Janet, Mrs. White ami the authorpaired off, leaving Olivia Kennyfeck to the guidance of Cashel. So youll positively not tell me what it i- that preys on your mindthis morning r -aid she, in the most insinuating of soft accents. Ca-ln-l shook hi- ln-ad mournfully, and said. Why should I tell you of what it i- impossible you could give meany counsel in, while your sympathy would only cause unea-inoss toyourself ? But you forget our compact, -aid -In-, archly, there was to beperfect confidence on both -id. -. was therend : Certainly. Now. when shall we begin? Have you not begun already I fancy not. Do you remember two evenings ago, when I came sud-
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EOLAND CASHEL. 203 denly into the drawing-room and found you pencil in hand, and you,instead of at once showing me what you had been sketching, shut theportfolio and carried it off, despite all my entreaties,—nay, all my justdemands. Oh, but, said she, smiling, confidence is one tiling—confessionis another. Too subtle distinctions for me, cried Cashel. I foolishly supposedthat there was to be an unreserved— Speak lower, for mercy sake,—dont you perceive Lady Janet tryingto hear every thing you say? This was said in a soft whisper, while sheadded aloud, I think you said it was a Correggio, Mr. Cashel, asthey stood before a veiy lightly clad Magdalen, who seemed endeavouringto make up for the deficiency of her costume, by draping across herbosom the voluptuous masses of her golden hair. I tliink, a Correggio, said Cashel, confused at the sudden artifice, but who has the catalogue ? Oh, Sir Andrew, tell us about numberfifty-eight. Fefty-eight, fefty-eight, mumbled Sir Andrew, a n

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