“What abominable treachery!” exclaimed Lydia. “It’s never done, you know,” said Lord Worthington, apologetically. “Only it might be.” Lydia turned away from him, and gave all her attention to the boxers. Of the two, Paradise shocked her least. He was evidently nervous and conscious of a screwed-up condition as to his courage; but his sly grin implied a wild sort of good-humor, and seemed to promise the spectators that he would show them some fun presently. Cashel watched his movements with a relentless vigilance and a sidelong glance in which, to Lydia’s apprehension, there was something infernal. Suddenly the eyes of Paradise lit up: he lowered his head, made a rush, balked himself purposely, and darted at Cashel. There was a sound like the pop of a champagne-cork, after which Cashel was seen undisturbed in the middle of the ring, and Paradise, flung against the ropes and trying to grin at his discomfiture, showed his white teeth through a mask of blood. “Beautiful!” cried Skene with emotion. “Beautiful! There ain’t but me and my boy in the world can give the upper cut like that! I wish I could see my old missis’s face now! This is nuts to her.” “Let us go away,” said Alice. “That was a very different blow to any that the gentlemen gave,” said Lydia, without heeding her, to Lord Worthington. “The man is bleeding horribly.” “It’s only his nose,” said Lord Worthington. “He’s used to it.” Meanwhile Cashel had followed Paradise to the ropes. “Now he has him,” chuckled Skene. “My boy’s got him agin the ropes; and he means to keep him there. Let him rush now, if he can. See what it is to have a good judgment.”