Cashel Byron's Profession

"That is possible," said Lydia. "At all events we have got a topic;

and that is an important home comfort in the country."

Just then they reached the castle. Lydia lingered for a moment on

the terrace. The Gothic chimneys of the Warren Lodge stood up

against the long, crimson cloud into which the sun was sinking. She

smiled as if some quaint idea had occurred to her; raised her eyes

for a moment to the black-marble Egyptian gazing with unwavering

eyes into the sky; and followed Alice in-doors.

Later on, when it was quite dark, Cashel sat in a spacious kitchen

at the lodge, thinking. His companion, who had laid his coat aside,

was at the fire, smoking, and watching a saucepan that simmered

there. He broke the silence by remarking, after a glance at the

clock, "Time to go to roost."

"Time to go to the devil," said Cashel. "I am going out."

"Yes, and get a chill. Not if I know it you don't."

"Well, go to bed yourself, and then you won't know it. I want to

take a walk round the place."

"If you put your foot outside that door to-night Lord Worthington

will lose his five hundred pounds. You can't lick any one in fifteen

minutes if you train on night air. Get licked yourself more likely."

"Will you bet two to one that I don't stay out all night and knock

the Flying Dutchman out of time in the first round afterwards? Eh?"

"Come," said Mellish, coaxingly; "have some common-sense. I'm

advising you for your good."

"Suppose I don't want to be advised for my good. Eh? Hand me over

that lemon. You needn't start a speech; I'm not going to eat it."

"Blest if he ain't rubbing his 'ands with it!" exclaimed Mellish,

after watching him for some moments. "Why, you bloomin' fool, lemon

won't 'arden your 'ands. Ain't I took enough trouble with them?"

"I want to whiten them," said Cashel, impatiently throwing the lemon

under the grate; "but it's no use; I can't go about with my fists

like a nigger's. I'll go up to London to-morrow and buy a pair of

gloves."

"What! Real gloves? Wearin' gloves?"

"You thundering old lunatic," said Cashel, rising and putting on his

hat; "is it likely that I want a pair of mufflers? Perhaps YOU think

you could teach me something with them. Ha! ha! By-the-bye--now

mind this, Mellish--don't let it out down here that I'm a fighting

man. Do you hear?"