“What would you give to be her?” said Cashel, derisively, catching the letter as she tossed it disdainfully to him. “If I was I’d respect myself more than to throw myself at YOUR head.” “Hush, Fanny,” said Mrs. Skene; “you’re too sharp. Ned, you oughtn’t to encourage her by laughing.” Next day Cashel rose early, went for a walk, paid extra attention to his diet, took some exercise with the gloves, had a bath and a rub down, and presented himself at Regent’s Park at three o’clock in excellent condition. Expecting to see Bashville, he was surprised when the door was opened by a female servant. “Miss Carew at home?” “Yes, sir,” said the girl, falling in love with him at first sight. “Mr. Byron, sir?” “That’s me,” said Cashel. “I say, is there any one with her?” “Only a lady, sir.” “Oh, d--n! Well, it can’t be helped. Never say die.” The girl led him then to a door, opened it, and when he entered shut it softly without announcing him. The room in which he found himself was a long one, lighted from the roof. The walls were hung with pictures. At the far end, with their backs towards him, were two ladies: Lydia, and a woman whose noble carriage and elegant form would, have raised hopes of beauty in a man less preoccupied than Cashel. But he, after advancing some distance with his eyes on Lydia, suddenly changed countenance, stopped, and was actually turning to fly, when the ladies, hearing his light step, faced about and rooted him to the spot. As Lydia offered him her hand, her companion, who had surveyed the visitor first with indifference, and then with incredulous surprise, exclaimed, with a burst of delighted recognition, like a child finding a long-lost plaything, “My darling boy!” And going to Cashel with the grace of a swan, she clasped him in her arms. In acknowledgment of which he thrust his red, discomfited face over her shoulder, winked at Lydia with his tongue in his cheek, and said, “This is what you may call the voice of nature, and no mistake.” “What a splendid creature you are!” said Mrs. Byron, holding him a little way from her, the better to admire him. “Do you know how handsome you are, you wretch?” “How d’ye do, Miss Carew,” said Cashel, breaking loose, and turning to Lydia. “Never mind her; it’s only my mother. At least,” he added, as if correcting himself, “she’s my mamma.” “And where have you come from? Where have you been? Do you know that I have not seen you for seven years, you unnatural boy? Think of his being my son, Miss Carew. Give me another kiss, my own,” she continued, grasping his arm affectionately. “What a muscular creature you are!” “Kiss away as much as you like,” said Cashel, struggling with the old school-boy sullenness as it returned oppressively upon him. “I suppose you’re well. You look right enough.”