“Yes,” she said, mockingly, beginning to despise him for his inability to act up to her in this thrilling scene; “I AM right enough. Your language is as refined as ever. And why do you get your hair cropped close like that? You must let it grow, and--” “Now, look here,” said Cashel, stopping her hand neatly as she raised it to rearrange his locks. “You just drop it, or I’ll walk out at that door and you won’t see me again for another seven years. You can either take me as you find me, or let me alone. Absalom and Dan Mendoza came to grief through wearing their hair long, and I am going to wear mine short.” Mrs. Byron became a shade colder. “Indeed!” she said. “Just the same still, Cashel?” “Just the same, both one and other of us,” he replied. “Before you spoke six words I felt as if we’d parted only yesterday.” “I am rather taken aback by the success of my experiment,” interposed Lydia. “I invited you purposely to meet one another. The resemblance between you led me to suspect the truth, and my suspicion was confirmed by the account Mr. Byron gave me of his adventures.” Mrs. Byron’s vanity was touched. “Is he like me?” she said, scanning his features. He, without heeding her, said to Lydia with undisguised mortification, “And was THAT why you sent for me?” “Are you disappointed?” said Lydia. “He is not in the least glad to see me,” said Mrs. Byron, plaintively. “He has no heart.” “Now she’ll go on for the next hour,” said Cashel, looking to Lydia, obviously because he found it much pleasanter than looking at his mother. “However, if you don’t care, I don’t. So, fire away, mamma.” “And you think we are really like one another?” said Mrs. Byron, not heeding him. “Yes; I think we are. There is a certain--Are you married, Cashel?” with sudden mistrust. “Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Cashel. “No; but I hope to be, some day,” he added, venturing to glance again at Lydia, who was, however, attentively observing Mrs. Byron. “Well, tell me everything about yourself. What are you? Now, I do hope, Cashel, that you have not gone upon the stage.” “The stage!” said Cashel, contemptuously. “Do I look like it?” “You certainly do not,” said Mrs. Byron, whimsically--“although you have a certain odious professional air, too. What did you do when you ran away so scandalously from that stupid school in the north? How do you earn your living? Or DO you earn it?” “I suppose I do, unless I am fed by ravens, as Elijah was. What do you think I was best fitted for by my education and bringing up? Sweep a crossing, perhaps! When I ran away from Panley, I went to sea.” “A sailor, of all things! You don’t look like one. And pray, what rank have you attained in your profession?” “The front rank. The top of the tree,” said Cashel, shortly. “Mr. Byron is not at present following the profession of a sailor; nor has he done so for many years,” said Lydia. Cashel looked at her, half in appeal, half in remonstrance.