“You are aware,” said Tiernay, “that Corrigan can give you nothing but personal security for this sum, and the lease of Tubber-beg?” But Cashel did not heed the remark, deep as he was in his own reflections. “There is a small sum—a few thousand pounds—of Mary's, settled at her mother's marriage. You are not attending to me,” said he, perceiving the pre-occupation of Roland's look. “I was mentioning that Mary Leicester—”
“Yes,” said Cashel, talking his thoughts aloud, “to marry her would, indeed, be the true solution of the difficulty.”
“What did you say?” whispered Tiernay, upon whose ear the muttered words fell distinctly.
“She would refuse me,” Roland went on; “the more certainly that I am rich. I know her well; the rank, the station, the thousand flatteries that wealth bestows, would be things for her mockery if unallied with power.”
“You are wrong, quite wrong,” said Tiernay; “her ambition is of a different order. Mary Leicester—”
“Mary Leicester!” echoed Cashel; and, in his suddenly awakened look, Tiernay at once perceived that some mistake had occurred. Hoare relieved the awkwardness of the moment as he said,—
“This wants but your signature, sir, and the matter is finished.”
Cashel wrote his name on the bill and was turning away, when Hoare said,—
“These are the bills; they are now your property, sir.”
“For what purpose?”