He was daunted by her tone; for he had never before heard her speak haughtily to a servant. He did not understand that he had changed subjectively, and was now her accomplice. “He’s given himself up.” “What do you mean?” she said, with sudden dismay. “Byron, madam. I brought some clothes to the lodge for him, but when I got there he was gone. I went round to the gates in search of him, and found him in the hands of the police. They told me he’d just given himself up. He wouldn’t give any account of himself; and he looked--well, sullen and beaten down like.” “What will they do with him?” she asked, turning quite pale. “A man got six weeks’ hard labor, last month, for the same offence. Most probably that’s what he’ll get. And very little for what’s he’s done, as you’d say if you saw him doing it, madam.” “Then,” said Lydia, sternly, “it was to see this”--she shrank from naming it--“this fight, that you asked my permission to go out!” “Yes, madam, it was,” said Bashville, with some bitterness. “I recognized Lord Worthington and plenty more noblemen and gentlemen there.” Lydia was about to reply sharply; but she checked herself; and her usual tranquil manner came back as she said, “That is no reason why you should have been there.” Bashville’s color began to waver, and his voice to need increased control. “It’s in human nature to go to such a thing once,” he said; “but once is enough, at least for me. You’ll excuse my mentioning it, madam; but what with Lord Worthington and the rest of Byron’s backers screaming oaths and abuse at the other man, and the opposite party doing the same to Byron--well, I may not be a gentleman; but I hope I can conduct myself like a man, even when I’m losing money.” “Then do not go to such an exhibition again, Bashville. I must not dictate to you what your amusements shall be; but I do not think you are likely to benefit yourself by copying Lord Worthington’s tastes.” “I copy no lord’s tastes,” said Bashville, reddening. “You hid the man that was fighting, Miss Carew. Why do you look down on the man that was only a bystander?” Lydia’s color rose, too. Her first impulse was to treat this outburst as rebellion against her authority, and crush it. But her sense of justice withheld her. “Would you have had me betray a fugitive who took refuge in my house, Bashville? YOU did not betray him.” “No,” said Bashville, his expression subdued to one of rueful pride. “When I am beaten by a better man, I have courage enough to get out of his way and take no mean advantage of him.” Lydia, not understanding, looked inquiringly at him. He made a gesture as if throwing something from him, and continued recklessly,