“So you 'll positively not tell me what it is that preys on your mind this morning?” said she, in the most insinuating of soft accents.
Cashel shook his head mournfully, and said,—
“Why should I tell you of what it is impossible you could give me any counsel in, while your sympathy would only cause uneasiness to yourself?”
“But you forget our compact,” said she, archly; “there was to be perfect confidence on both sides, was there not?”
“Certainly. Now, when shall we begin?”
“Have you not begun already?”
“I fancy not. Do you remember two evenings ago, when I came suddenly into the drawing-room and found you pencil in hand, and you, instead of at once showing me what you had been sketching, shut the portfolio, and carried it off, despite all my entreaties—nay, all my just demands?”
“Oh, but,” said she, smiling, “confidence is one thing—confession is another.”
“Too subtle distinctions for me,” cried Cashel. “I foolishly supposed that there was to be an unreserved—”
“Speak lower, for mercy sake!—don't you perceive Lady Janet trying to hear everything you say?” This was said in a soft whisper, while she added aloud, “I think you said it was a Correggio, Mr. Cashel,” as they stood before a very lightly-clad Magdalen, who seemed endeavoring to make up for the deficiency of her costume by draping across her bosom the voluptuous masses of her golden hair.