“Of course one picks up a great deal from experience; and there is plenty of work on the stage. But it in my genius which enables me to pick up things, and to work on the stage instead of in a kitchen or laundry.” “You must be very fond of your profession.” “I do not mind it now; I have shrunk to fit it. I began because I couldn’t help myself; and I go on because, being an old woman, I have nothing else to do. Bless me, how I hated it after the first month! I must retire soon, now. People are growing weary of me.” “I doubt that. I am bound to assume that you are an old woman, since you say so; but you must be aware, flattery apart, that you hardly seem to have reached your prime yet.” “I might be your mother, my dear. I might be a grand mother. Perhaps I am.” There was a plaintive tone in the last sentence; and Lydia seized the opportunity. “You spoke of maternity then from experience, Miss Gisborne?” “I have one son--a son who was sent to me in my eighteenth year.” “I hope he inherits his mother’s genius and personal grace.” “I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Byron, pensively. “He was a perfect devil. I fear I shock you, Miss Carew; but really I did everything for him that the most devoted mother could do; and yet he ran away from me without making a sign of farewell. Little wretch!” “Boys do cruel things sometimes in a spirit of adventure,” said Lydia, watching her visitor’s face narrowly. “It was not that. It was his temper, which was ungovernable. He was sulky and vindictive. It is quite impossible to love a sulky child. I kept him constantly near me when he was a tiny creature; and when he got too big for that I spent oceans of money on his education. All in vain! He never showed any feeling towards me except a sense of injury that no kindness could remove. And he had nothing to complain of. Never was there a worse son.” Lydia remained silent and grave. Mrs. Byron looked rather beside her than at her. Suddenly she added,