It was not reverent, but he
was a gentleman; and the clerk standing behind him, retained his quiet
posture, and that smile, that yet was not a smile, but a sort of
reflected light--was it patience, or was it secret ridicule?--you could
not tell: and it never changed, and somehow it was provoking.
'And some persons, I believe, had an unpleasant duty to do there,' said
Dangerfield, abruptly, in the middle of his tune, and turning his
spectacles fully and sternly on Mr. Irons.
The clerk's head bent lower, and he shook it; and his eyes, but for a
little glitter through the eyelashes, seemed to close.
''Tis a pretty church, this--a pretty town, and some good families in
the neighbourhood,' said Dangerfield, briskly; 'and I dare say some
trout in the river--hey?--the stream looks lively.'
'Middling, only--poor gray troutlings, Sir--not a soul cares to fish it
but myself,' he answered.
'You're the clerk--eh?'
'At your service, Sir.'
'_Dublin_ man?--or--'
'Born and bred in Dublin, your honour.'
'Ay--well! Irons--you've heard of Mr. Dangerfield--Lord Castlemallard's
agent--I am he.
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