“Well, sell out, in Heaven's name! Do all and anything you like, and I promise my most unqualified satisfaction at the result.”
“There, now,” interposed Mrs. Kennyfeck, authoritatively, “don't worry any more; you see how tiresome you are!”
And poor Mr. Kennyfeck seemed to see and feel it too; for he hung his head, and sipped his tea in silence.
“To-day we dine alone, Mr. Cashel,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck; “but to-morrow I will try to show you some of the Dublin notorieties,—at least, such as are to be had in the season. On Friday we plan a little country party into Wicklow, and have promised to keep Saturday free, if the Blackenburgs want us.”
“What shall we say, then, about Tubberbeg, Mr. Cashel?” said Kennyfeck, withdrawing him into a window-recess. “We ought to give the answer at once.”
“Faith! I forgot all about it,” said Cashel. “Is that the fishery you told me of?”
“Oh, no!” sighed the disconsolate man of law. “It's the farm on the terminable lease, at present held by Hugh Corrigan; he asks for a renewal.”
“Well, let him have it,” said Cashel, bluntly, while his eyes were turned towards the fire, where the two sisters, with arms entwined, stood in the most graceful of attitudes.
“Yes, but have you considered the matter maturely?” rejoined Kennyfeck, laying his hand on Cashel's arm. “Have you taken into account that he only pays eight and seven pence per acre,—the Irish acre, too,—and that a considerable part of that land adjoining the Boat Quay is let, as building plots for two and sixpence a foot?”
“A devilish pretty foot it is, too,” murmured Cashel, musingly.