“Well,” said Cashel, blushing, “a lot of people used to make out that you weren’t married at all.” “What!” exclaimed Mrs. Byron, indignantly. “Oh, they DARE not say so! Impossible. Why did you not tell me at once?” “I didn’t think about it,” said Cashel, hastily excusing himself. “I was too young to care. It doesn’t matter now. My father is dead, isn’t he?” “He died when you were a baby. You have often made me angry with you, poor little innocent, by reminding me of him. Do not talk of him to me.” “Not if you don’t wish. Just one thing, though, mamma. Was he a gentleman?” “Of course. What a question!” “Then I am as good as any of the swells that think themselves her equals? She has a cousin in the government office; a fellow who gives out that he is the home secretary, and most likely sits in a big chair in a hall and cheeks the public. Am I as good as he is?” “You are perfectly well connected by your mother’s side, Cashel. The Byrons are only commoners; but even they are one of the oldest county families in England.” Cashel began to show signs of excitement. “How much a year are they worth?” he demanded. “I do not know how much they are worth now. Your father was always in difficulties, and so was his father. But Bingley is a miser. Five thousand a year, perhaps.” “That’s an independence. That’s enough. She said she couldn’t expect a man to be so thunderingly rich as she is.” “Indeed? Then you have discussed the question with her?” Cashel was about to speak, when a servant entered to say that Miss Carew was in the library, and begged that they would come to her as soon as they were quite disengaged. When the maid withdrew he said, eagerly, “I wish you’d go home, mamma, and let me catch her in the library by herself. Tell me where you live, and I’ll come in the evening and tell you all about it. That is, if you have no objection.” “What objection could I possibly have, dearest one? Are you sure that you are not spoiling your chance by too much haste? She has no occasion to hurry, Cashel, and she knows it.” “I am dead certain that now is my time or never. I always know by instinct when to go in and finish. Here’s your mantle.” “In such a hurry to get rid of your poor old mother, Cashel?” “Oh, bother! you’re not old. You won’t mind my wanting you to go for this once, will you?” She smiled affectionately, put on her mantle, and turned her cheek towards him to be kissed. The unaccustomed gesture alarmed him; he retreated a step, and involuntary assumed an attitude of self-defence, as if the problem before him were a pugilistic one. Recovering himself immediately, he kissed her, and impatiently accompanied her to the house door, which he closed softly behind her, leaving her to walk in search of her carriage alone. Then he stole up-stairs to the library, where he found Lydia reading. “She’s gone,” he said.