She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he had alluded to his sentiment, his whiskers, which he was now caressing, or the French clock on the mantelpiece.
“Is that one of Layton's?” said he, carelessly turning over a water-colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape.
“Yes,” said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio.
“He won't do many more of them, I suspect.”
“How so?—why?—what do you mean?” cried she, grasping his arm, while a death-like paleness spread over her features.
“Just that he's going as fast as he can. What's the mischief! is it fainting she is?”
With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, staggering backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O'Shea tugged violently at the bell: the servant rushed in, and immediately after Mrs. Morris herself; but by this time Clara had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a few words.
“I was telling her of Layton's being so ill,” began he, in a whisper, to Mrs. Morris.
“Of course you were,” said she, pettishly. “For an inconvenience or an indiscretion, what can equal an Irishman?”
The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, leaving the luckless O'Shea alone to ruminate over the politeness.