“What!” exclaimed Cashel. “That lantern-jawed fellow told you I was a butcher!” “I did not mean to betray him; but, as I have already said, I am bad at keeping secrets. Mr. Lucian Webber is my cousin and friend, and has done me many services. May I rest assured that he has nothing to fear from you?” “He has no right to tell lies about me. He is sweet on you, too: I twigged that at Wiltstoken. I have a good mind to let him know whether I am a butcher or not.” “He did not say so. What he told me of you, as far as it went, is exactly confirmed by what you have said yourself. But I happened to ask him to what class men of your calling usually belonged; and he said that they were laborers, butchers, and so forth. Do you resent that?” “I see plainly enough that you won’t let me resent it. I should like to know what else he said of me. But he was right enough about the butchers. There are all sorts of blackguards in the ring: there’s no use in denying it. Since it’s been made illegal, decent men won’t go into it. But, all the same, it’s not the fighting men, but the betting men, that bring discredit on it. I wish your cousin had held his confounded tongue.” “I wish you had forestalled him by telling me the truth.” “I wish I had, now. But what’s the use of wishing? I didn’t dare run the chance of losing you. See how soon you forbade me the house when you did find out.” “It made little difference,” said Lydia, gravely. “You were always friendly to me,” said Cashel, plaintively. “More so than you were to me. You should not have deceived me. And now I think we had better part. I am glad to know your history; and I admit that when you embraced your profession you made perhaps the best choice that society offered you. I do not blame you.” “But you give me the sack. Is that it?” “What do you propose, Mr. Cashel Byron? Is it to visit my house in the intervals of battering and maiming butchers and laborers?” “No, it’s not,” retorted Cashel. “You’re very aggravating. I won’t stay much longer in the ring now, because my luck is too good to last. I shall have to retire soon, luck or no luck, because no one can match me. Even now there’s nobody except Bill Paradise that pretends to be able for me; and I’ll settle him in September if he really means business. After that, I’ll retire. I expect to be worth ten thousand pounds then. Ten thousand pounds, I’m told, is the same as five hundred a year. Well, I suppose, judging from the style you keep here, that you’re worth as much more, besides your place in the country; so, if you will marry me, we shall have a thousand a year between us. I don’t know much of money matters; but at any rate we can live like fighting-cocks on that much. That’s a straight and business-like proposal, isn’t it?” “And if I refuse?” said Lydia, with some sternness.