“I alluded to popery, sir,—to the obscuring mists of superstition and ignorance,” replied Mr. Softly, with a kind of energetic timidity that made himself blush.
“Oh—I perceive—yes—I understand,” muttered Cashel, who certainly felt all the awkwardness of a man caught in a lie.
“We have a very agreeable society among the bar men,” said Jones, returning to the charge in a new direction; “a great deal of pleasantry and fun goes on at our messes.”
“Droll fellows, I suppose,” said Cashel, carelessly. “I remember I knew a lawyer once; he was a mate of a small clipper in the African trade,—mischievous kind of devil he was too,—always setting the slaves by the ears, and getting money for settling the differences. They played him a good trick at last.” Here he laughed heartily at the recollection for several minutes.
“What was it?” asked Jones, in some curiosity to learn how the bar was respected on the banks of the Niger.
“They painted him black and sold him at Cuba,” said Cashel, who once more broke out into laughter at the excellence of the jest.
Jones's and Softly's eyes met with a most complete accordance in the glances exchanged. Meanwhile, Cashel, drawing his chair towards the larger table, filled his glass and proceeded to smash his walnuts with all the easy contentment of a man who had dined well.
“I perceive Mr. Kennyfeck is not likely to join us,” said Softly, with a half suggestive look towards the door.
“Tired, perhaps,” said Jones, affecting what he opined to be the cool indifference of the highest fashion.
“More than that, I suspect,” said Cashel, with a most unfeigned carelessness. “Did you remark his eye?”