“Since the devil will have it so,” said Cashel, ruefully. “It’s no use wishing to have it any other way. The luck is against me. I hope, Miss Carew, that you’ll excuse me for making such an ass of myself. It’s all my blessed innocence; I never was taught any better.” “I have no quarrel with you except on the old score of hiding the truth from me; and that I forgive you--as far as the evil of it affects me. As for your declaration of attachment to me personally, I have received many similar ones that have flattered me less. But there are certain scruples between us. You will not court a woman a hundred-fold richer than yourself; and I will not entertain a prize-fighter. My wealth frightens every man who is not a knave; and your profession frightens every woman who is not a fury.” “Then you--Just tell me this,” said Cashel, eagerly. “Suppose I were a rich swell, and were not a--” “No,” said Lydia, peremptorily interrupting him. “I will suppose nothing but what is.” Cashel relapsed into melancholy. “If you only hadn’t been kind to me!” he said. “I think the reason I love you so much is that you’re the only person that is not afraid of me. Other people are civil because they daren’t be otherwise to the cock of the ring. It’s a lonely thing to be a champion. You knew nothing about that; and you knew I was afraid of you; and yet you were as good as gold.” “It is also a lonely thing to be a very rich woman. People are afraid of my wealth, and of what they call my learning. We two have at least one experience in common. Now do me a great favor, by going. We have nothing further to say.” “I’ll go in two seconds. But I don’t believe much in YOUR being lonely. That’s only fancy.” “Perhaps so. Most feelings of this kind are only fancies.” There was a pause. Then Cashel said, “I don’t feel half so downhearted as I did a minute ago. Are you sure that you’re not angry with me?” “Quite sure. Pray let me say good-bye.” “And may I never see you again? Never at all?--world without end, amen?” “Never as the famous prize-fighter. But if a day should come when Mr. Cashel Byron will be something better worthy of his birth and nature, I will not forget an old friend. Are you satisfied now?” Cashel’s face began to glow, and the roots of his hair to tingle. “One thing more,” he said. “If you meet me by chance in the street before that, will you give me a look? I don’t ask for a regular bow, but just a look to keep me going?” “I have no intention of cutting you,” said Lydia, gravely. “But do not place yourself purposely in my way.” “Honor bright, I won’t. I’ll content myself with walking through that street in Soho occasionally. Now I’m off; I know you’re in a hurry to be rid of me. So good-b--Stop a bit, though. Perhaps when that time you spoke of comes, you will be married.” “It is possible; but I am not likely to marry. How many more things have you to say that you have no right to say?”