y.

"Your eyes are very red for nothing, my dear," rejoined the elder.

"I dinna ken, sir," said Sir Andrew to Softly, as he made use of his arm
for support,--"I dinna ken how ye understand your theory aboot optical
delusions, but I maun say, it seems to me a vara strange way for men o'
your cloth to pass the mornin' starin' at naked weemen,--creatures, too,
that if they ever leeved at all, must ha' led the maist abondoned lives.
I take it that Diana herself was ne better than a cuttie; do ye mark hoo
she does no scruple to show a bra pair of legs--"

"With respect to the Heathen Mythology," broke in Softly, in a voice he
hoped might subdue the discussion.

"Don't tell me aboot the hay thins, sir; flesh and bluid is a' the same,
whatever Kirk it follows."

Before they were seated at table, Linton had joined them, explaining, in
the most natural way in the world, that, having sat down to write in the
boudoir, he had fallen fast asleep, and was only awakened by Mr. Phillis
having accidentally discovered him. A look of quick intelligence
passed between Cashel and Olivia at this narrative; the young lady
soon appeared to have recovered from her former embarrassment, and the
luncheon proceeded pleasantly to all parties. Mr. Howie enjoyed himself
to the utmost, not only by the reflection that a hearty luncheon at two
would save an hotel dinner at six, but that the Dean and Sir Andrew were
two originals, worth five pound apiece even for "Punch." As to Cashel, a
glance at the author's note-book would show how he impressed that gifted
personage: "R. C.: a snob--rich--and gullible; his pictures, all the
household gods at Christie's, the Vandyck, late a sign of the Marquis
of Granby, at Windsor. Mem.: not over safe to quiz him." "But we 'll see
later on." "Visit him at his country-seat, 'if poss.'"

"Who is our spectacled friend?" said Linton, as they drove away from the
door.

"Some distinguished author, whose name I have forgotten."

"Shrewd looking fellow,--think I have seen him at Ascot. What brings him
over here?"

"To write a book, I fancy."

"What a bore. This is the age of detectives, with a vengeance. Well,
don't let him in again, that's all. By Jove! it's easier, now-a-days, to
escape the Queen's Bench than the 'Illustrated News.'"

"A note from Mr. Kennyfeck, sir," said Mr. Phillis, "and the man waits
for an answer."

Linton, taking up a book, affected to read, but in reality placed
himself so as to watch