“Truly I do not know,” said Lydia, puzzled; “unless it be that your colleagues have failed to recommend themselves to society by their extra-professional conduct as the others have.” “I grant you that fighting men ar’n’t gentlemen, as a rule. No more were painters, or poets, once upon a time. But what I want to know is this: Supposing a fighting man has as good manners as your friends, and is as well born, why shouldn’t he mix with them and be considered their equal?” “The distinction seems arbitrary, I confess. But perhaps the true remedy would be to exclude the vivisectors and soldiers, instead of admitting the prize-fighters. Mr. Cashel Byron,” added Lydia, changing her manner, “I cannot discuss this with you. Society has a prejudice against you. I share it; and I cannot overcome it. Can you find no nobler occupation than these fierce and horrible encounters by which you condescend to gain a living?” “No,” said Cashel, flatly. “I can’t. That’s just where it is.” Lydia looked grave, and said nothing. “You don’t see it?” said Cashel. “Well, I’ll just tell you all about myself, and then leave you to judge. May I sit down while I talk?” He had risen in the course of his remarks on Lydia’s scientific and military acquaintances. She pointed to a chair near her. Something in the action brought color to his cheeks. “I believe I was the most unfortunate devil of a boy that ever walked,” he began, when he was seated. “My mother was--and is--an actress, and a tiptop crack in her profession. One of the first things I remember is sitting on the floor in the corner of a room where there was a big glass, and she flaring away before it, attitudinizing and spouting Shakespeare like mad. I was afraid of her, because she was very particular about my manners and appearance, and would never let me go near a theatre. I know very little about either my people or hers; for she boxed my ears one day for asking who my father was, and I took good care not to ask her again. She was quite young when I was a child; at first I thought her a sort of angel--I should have been fond of her, I think, if she had let me. But she didn’t, somehow; and I had to keep my affection for the servants. I had plenty of variety in that way; for she gave her whole establishment the sack about once every two months, except a maid who used to bully her, and gave me nearly all the nursing I ever got. I believe it was my crying about some housemaid or other who went away that first set her abusing me for having low tastes--a sort of thing that used to cut me to the heart, and which she kept up till the very day I left her for good. We were a precious pair: I sulky and obstinate, she changeable and hot-tempered. She used to begin breakfast sometimes by knocking me to the other side of the room with a slap, and finish it by calling me her darling boy and promising me all manner of toys and things. I soon gave up trying to please her, or like her, and