“That cannot be,” said Cashel; “it is rather that you treated his affection harshly.”
“Should it not bear a little?—ought it to give way at once?”
“Nor will it,” said he, more earnestly, “if you deal but fairly. Come, I will teach you a still more simple, and yet unerring test.”
A heavy sigh from behind the Chinese screen made both the speakers start; and while Olivia, pale with terror, sank into a chair, Cashel hastened to see what had caused the alarm.
“Linton, upon my life!” exclaimed he, in a low whisper, as, on tiptoe, he returned to the place beside her.
“Oh, Mr. Cashel; oh dear, Mr. Cashel—”
“Dearest Olivia—”
“Heigho!” broke in Linton; and Roland and his companion slipped noiselessly from the room, and, unperceived, mixed with the general company, who sat in rapt attention while the Dean explained that painting was nothing more nor less than an optical delusion,—a theory which seemed to delight Mrs. Kennyfeck in the same proportion that it puzzled her. Fortunately, the announcement that luncheon was on the table cut short the dissertation, and the party descended, all more or less content to make material enjoyments succeed to intellectual ones.
“Well,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to her sister, as they descended the stairs, “did he?”
An almost inaudible “No” was the reply.