“I'll wait your convenience, miss, to any hour,” said Scanlan, with an air of gallantry which, had she been less occupied with her thoughts, might have pushed her hard to avoid smiling at. “I'll be down at Mrs. Cronan's till I hear from you, Miss Mary.” And with a look of as much deferential admiration as he dared to bestow, Scanlan took his leave, and mounting to his box, assumed the ribbons with a graceful elegance and a certain lackadaisical languor that, to himself at least, appeared demonstrative of an advanced stage of the tender passion. “Begad, she's a fine girl; devil a lie in it, but she has n't her equal! and as sharp as a needle, too,” muttered he, as he jogged along the shingly beach, probably for the first time in his whole life forgetting the effect he was producing on the bystanders. CHAPTER V. A STUDIO AND AN ARTIST “Is my uncle in the library, Terence?” asked Mary of a very corpulent old man, in a red-brown wig. “No, miss, he's in the--bother it, then, if I ever can think of the name of it.” “The studio, you mean,” said she, smiling. “Just so, Miss Mary,” replied he, with a sigh; for he remembered certain penitential hours passed by himself in the same locality. “Do you think you could manage to let him know I want him--that is, that I have something important to say to him?” “It's clean impossible, miss, to get near him when he's there. Sure, is n't he up on a throne, dressed out in goold and dimonds, and as cross as a badger besides, at the way they're tormenting him?” “Oh, that tiresome picture, is it never to be completed?” muttered she, half unconsciously. “The saints above know whether it is or no,” rejoined Terence, “for one of the servants told me yesterday that they rubbed every bit of the master out, and began him all again; for my Lady said he was n't half haggard enough, or worn-looking; but, by my conscience, if he goes on as he 's doing, he ought to satisfy them.” “Why, I thought it was Henderson was sitting,” said Mary, somewhat amused at the old man's commentaries. “So he was; but they rubbed him out, too; for it seems now he ought to be bald, and they 've sent him into Oughter-ard to get his head shaved.” “And what were _you_, Terry?” “Arrah, who knows?” said he, querulously. “At first I was to be somebody's mother that was always cryin'; but they weren't pleased with the way I done it; and then they made me a monk, and after that they put two hundredweight of armor on me, and made me lean my head on my arm as if I was overcome; and faith, so I was; for I dropped off asleep, and fell into a pot of varnish, and I 'm in disgrace now, glory be to God! and I only hope it may last.” “I wish I shared your fortune, Terry, with all my heart,” said Mary, with some difficulty preserving her gravity.