“And when are we to visit your pictures, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, whose efforts to suppress Peter were not merely vocal, as that injured individual's shins might attest.
“That depends entirely on you, madam,” said Roland, bowing. “I have only to say, the earlier the more agreeable to me.”
“He has such a beautiful collection,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, turning to her sister.
“Indeed, then, I delight in pictures,” said “Aunt Fanny,” as her nieces called her. “I went the other day to Mount Bennett, to see a portrait painted by Rousseau.”
“By Rubens, I suppose you mean, aunt,” interposed Miss Kennyfeck, tartly.
“So it may be, my dear, I never know the names right; but it was a dark old man, with a hairy cap and a long gray beard, as like Father Morris Heffernan as ever it could stare.”
“Is your new Carlo Dolce so very like Olivia?” interposed Mrs. Kennyfeck, who was sadly hampered by her country relatives and their reminiscences.
“So very like, madam, that I beg you to accept it as a portrait,” replied Roland.
“Upon my word, then, young gentleman, you 're not so fond of a pretty face as you might be,” broke in Aunt Fanny, “or you would n't be so ready to give it away.” A very hearty laugh at the old lady's eccentricity relieved Cashel from all necessity of explanation.
“The old masters are so good,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “I delight in their fine, vigorous touch.”