“I think a Correggio,” said Cashel, confused at the sudden artifice; “but who has the catalogue?—oh, Sir Andrew; tell us about number fifty-eight.”
“Fefty-eight, fefty-eight?” mumbled Sir Andrew a number of times to himself, and then, having found the number, he approached the picture and surveyed it attentively.
“Well, sir, what is it called?” said Olivia.
“It's vara singular,” said Sir Andrew, still gazing at the canvas, “but doubtless Correggio knew weel what he was aboot. This,” said he, “is a picture of Sain John the Baaptist in a raiment of caamel's hair.”
No sense of propriety was proof against this announcement; a laugh, loud and general, burst forth, during which Lady Janet, snatching the book indignantly from his hands, cried,—
“You were looking at sixty-eight, Sir Andrew, not fifty-eight; and you have made yourself perfectly ridiculous.”
“By my saul, I believe so,” muttered the old gentleman, in deep anger. “I 've been looking at 'saxty-eight' ower long already!”
Fortunately, this sarcasm was not heard by her against whom it was directed, and they who did hear it were fain to suppress their laughter as well as they were able. The party was now increased by the arrival of the Dean and his “ancient,” Mr. Softly, to the manifest delight of Mrs. Kennyfeck, who at once exclaimed,—
“Ah, we shall now hear something really instructive.”