Dr. Toole paused for
nearly a minute, as if expecting something in return; but it did not
come.
So the doctor started afresh, never caring for Mervyn's somewhat
dangerous looks.
'Mighty pretty prospects about here, Sir. The painters come out by
dozens in the summer, with their books and pencils, and scratch away
like so many Scotchmen. Ha! ha! ha! If you draw, Sir, there's one
prospect up the river, by the mills--upon my conscience--but you don't
draw?'
No answer.
'A little, Sir, maybe? Just for a maggot, I'll wager--like _my_ good
lady, Mrs. Toole.' A nearer glance at his dress had satisfied Toole that
he was too much of a maccaroni for an artist, and he was thinking of
placing him upon the lord lieutenant's staff. 'We've capital horses
here, if you want to go on to Leixlip,' (where--this between ourselves
and the reader--during the summer months His Excellency and Lady
Townshend resided, and where, the old newspapers tell us, they 'kept a
public day every Monday,' and he 'had a levee, as usual, every
Thursday.') But this had no better success.
'If you design to stay over the day, and care for shooting, we'll have
some ball practice on Palmerstown fair-green to-day.
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