Cashel Byron's Profession

"Just a word. Promise me that you won't ask any of THEM that."

"Promise you! No. I cannot promise that."

"Oh, Lord!" said Cashel, with a groan.

"I have told you that I do not respect secrets. For the present I

will not ask; but I may change my mind. Meanwhile we must not hold

long conversations. I even hope that we shall not meet. There is

only one thing that I am too rich and grand for. That one

thing--mystification. Adieu."

Before he could reply she was away from him in the midst of a number

of gentlemen, and in conversation with one of them. Cashel seemed

overwhelmed. But in an instant he recovered himself, and stepped

jauntily before Mrs. Hoskyn, who had just come into his

neighborhood.

"I'm going, ma'am," he said. "Thank you for a pleasant evening--I'm

very sorry I forgot myself. Good-night."

Mrs. Hoskyn, naturally frank, felt some vague response within

herself to this address. But, though not usually at a loss for words

in social emergencies, she only looked at him, blushed slightly, and

offered her hand. He took it as if it were a tiny baby's hand and he

afraid of hurting it, gave it a little pinch, and turned to go. Mr.

Adrian Herbert, the painter, was directly in his way, with his back

towards him.

"If YOU please, sir," said Cashel, taking him gently by the ribs,

and moving him aside. The artist turned indignantly, but Cashel was

passing the doorway. On the stairs he met Lucian and Alice, and

stopped a moment to take leave of them.

"Good-night, Miss Goff," he said. "It's a pleasure to see the

country roses in your cheeks." He lowered his voice as he added, to

Lucian, "Don't you worry yourself over that little trick I showed

you. If any of your friends chafe you about it, tell them that it

was Cashel Byron did it, and ask them whether they think they could

have helped themselves any better than you could. Don't ever let a

person come within distance of yon while you're standing in that

silly way on both your heels. Why, if a man isn't properly planted

on his pins, a broom-handle falling against him will upset him.

That's the way of it. Good-night."

Lucian returned the salutation, mastered by a certain latent

dangerousness in Cashel, suggestive that he might resent a snub by

throwing the offender over the balustrade. As for Alice, she had

entertained a superstitious dread of him ever since Lydia had

pronounced him a ruffian. Both felt relieved when the house door,

closing, shut them out of his reach.