the corner there--one of the talkingest gossips in the town--and a
confounded prying, tattling place it is, I can tell you--knows the
driver; and Bob Martin, the sexton, you know--tells me there were two
parsons, no less--hey! Cauliflowers in season, by Jove. Old Dr.
Walsingham, our rector, a pious man, Sir, and does a world of good--that
is to say, relieves half the blackguards in the parish--ha! ha! when
we're on the point of getting rid of them--but means well, only he's a
little bit lazy, and queer, you know; and that rancid, raw-boned parson,
Gillespie--how the plague did they pick him up?--one of the mutes told
Bob 'twas he. He's from Donegal; I know all about him; the sourest dog I
ever broke bread with--and mason, if you please, by Jove--a prince
pelican! He supped at the Grand Lodge after labour, one night--_you're_
not a mason, I see; tipt you the sign--and his face was so pinched, and
so yellow, by Jupiter, I was near squeezing it into the punch-bowl for a
lemon--ha! ha! hey?'

Mervyn's large eyes expressed a well-bred surprise. 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.