“We may be unjust, my Lord,” said Linton; “it may be a prejudice on our part: others would seem to have a different estimate of that gentleman. Meek thinks highly of him.”
“Who, sir? I didn't hear you,” asked he, snappishly.
“Meek,—Downie Meek, my Lord.”
“Pshaw!” said the old man, with a shrewd twinkle of the eye that made Linton fear the mind behind it was clearer than he suspected.
“I know, my Lord,” said he, hastily, “that you always held the worthy secretary cheap; but you weighed him in a balance too nice for the majority of people—”
“What does that old woman say? Tell me her opinion of Cashel,” said Lord Kilgoff, rallying into something like his accustomed manner. “You know whom I mean!” cried he, impatient at Linton's delay in answering. “The old woman one sees everywhere,—she married that Scotch sergeant—”
“Lady Janet MacFarline—”
“Exactly, sir.”
“She thinks precisely with your Lordship.”
“I'm sure of it; I told my Lady so,” muttered he to himself.