Cashel Byron's Profession

The years that had elapsed since Mrs. Byron's visit to Dr. Moncrief

had left no perceptible trace on her; indeed she looked younger now

than on that occasion, because she had been at the trouble of

putting on an artificial complexion. Her careless refinement of

manner was so different from the studied dignity and anxious

courtesy of the actor-manager, that Lydia could hardly think of them

as belonging to the same profession. Her voice was not her stage

voice; it gave a subtle charm to her most commonplace remarks, and

it was as different as possible from Cashel's rough tones. Yet Lydia

was convinced by the first note of it that she was Cashel's mother.

Besides, their eyes were so like that they might have made an

exchange without altering their appearance.

Mrs. Byron, coming to the point without delay, at once asked to see

the drawing. Lydia brought her to the library, were several

portfolios were ready for inspection. The precious fragment of

vellum was uppermost.

"Very interesting, indeed," said Mrs. Byron, throwing it aside after

one glance at it, and turning over some later prints, while Lydia,

amused, looked on in silence. "Ah," she said, presently, "here is

something that will suit me exactly. I shall not trouble to go

through the rest of your collection, thank you. They must do that

robe for me in violet silk. What is your opinion of it, Miss Carew?

I have noticed, from one or two trifles, that your taste is

exquisite."

"For what character do you intend the dress?"

"Constance, in 'King John.'"

"But silk was not made in western Europe until three hundred years

after Constance's death. And that drawing is a sketch of Marie de

Medicis by Rubens."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Byron, smoothly. "What does a dress three

hundred years out of date matter when the woman inside it is seven

hundred years out? What can be a greater anachronism than the death

of Prince Arthur three months hence on the stage of the Panopticon

Theatre? I am an artist giving life to a character in romance, I

suppose; certainly not a grown-up child playing at being somebody

out of Mrs. Markham's history of England. I wear whatever becomes

me. I cannot act when I feel dowdy."

"But what will the manager say?"

"I doubt if he will say anything. He will hardly venture to press on

me anything copied from that old parchment. As he will wear a suit

of armor obviously made the other day in Birmingham, why--!" Mrs.

Byron shrugged her shoulders, and did not take sufficient interest

in the manager's opinion to finish her sentence.