“I meant,” said Alice, crestfallen, “that I take no special interest in him.” Lydia, not being curious as to the exact degree of Alice’s interest, merely nodded, and continued, “He may, as you suppose, be a man of humble origin who has seen something of society; or he may be a gentleman unaccustomed to society. Probably the latter. I feel no conviction either way.” “But he speaks very roughly; and his slang is disgusting. His hands are hard and quite black. Did you not notice them?” “I noticed it all; and I think that if he were a man of low condition he would be careful not to use slang. Self-made persons are usually precise in their language; they rarely violate the written laws of society. Besides, his pronunciation of some words is so distinct that an idea crossed me once that he might be an actor. But then it is not uniformly distinct. I am sure that he has some object or occupation in life: he has not the air of an idler. Yet I have thought of all the ordinary professions, and he does not fit one of them. This is perhaps what makes him interesting. He is unaccountable.” “He must have some position. He was very familiar with Lord Worthington.” “Lord Worthington is a sportsman, and is familiar with all sorts of people.” “Yes; but surely he would not let a jockey, or anybody of that class, put his arm round his neck, as we saw Mr. Byron do.” “That is true,” said Lydia, thoughtfully. “Still,” she added, clearing her brow and laughing, “I am loath to believe that he is an invalid student.” “I will tell you what he is,” said Alice suddenly. “He is companion and keeper to the man with whom he lives. Do you recollect his saying ‘Mellish is mad’?” “That is possible,” said Lydia. “At all events we have got a topic; and that is an important home comfort in the country.” Just then they reached the castle. Lydia lingered for a moment on the terrace. The Gothic chimneys of the Warren Lodge stood up against the long, crimson cloud into which the sun was sinking. She smiled as if some quaint idea had occurred to her; raised her eyes for a moment to the black-marble Egyptian gazing with unwavering eyes into the sky; and followed Alice in-doors. Later on, when it was quite dark, Cashel sat in a spacious kitchen at the lodge, thinking. His companion, who had laid his coat aside, was at the fire, smoking, and watching a saucepan that simmered there. He broke the silence by remarking, after a glance at the clock, “Time to go to roost.” “Time to go to the devil,” said Cashel. “I am going out.” “Yes, and get a chill. Not if I know it you don’t.” “Well, go to bed yourself, and then you won’t know it. I want to take a walk round the place.” “If you put your foot outside that door to-night Lord Worthington will lose his five hundred pounds. You can’t lick any one in fifteen minutes if you train on night air. Get licked yourself more likely.”