“There 's a capital fellow, called Tom Cox, by the way, somewhere down in that country, who used to paint our scenes for the garrison theatricals. Could you make him out, he 'd be so useful,” said one of the military.
“By all means get up some hurdle-racing,” cried another.
Meanwhile, Roland Cashel approached Olivia Kennyfeck, who was affecting to seek for some piece of music on the pianoforte.
“Why do you look so sad?” said he, in a low tone, and seeming to assist her in the search.
“Do I?” said she, with the most graceful look of artless-ness. “I 'm sure I did n't know it.”
“There again, what a deep sigh that was; come, pray tell me, if I dare to know, what has grieved you?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing whatever. I 'm sure I never felt in better spirits. Dear me! Mr. Cashel, how terrified I am, there's that dreadful Lady Janet has seen us talking together.”
“Well, and what then?”
“Oh, she is so mischievous, and says such horrid, spite-ful things. It was she that said it—”
“Said what,—what did she say?” cried he, eagerly.