“I see you’re no judge of a picture,” said he, good-humoredly, putting down the candle, and stepping in front of Lucian, who regarded him haughtily, and did not budge. “But just look at it in this way. Suppose you wanted to hit me the most punishing blow you possibly could. What would you do? Why, according to your own notion, you’d make a great effort. ‘The more effort the more force,’ you’d say to yourself. ‘I’ll smash him even if I burst myself in doing it.’ And what would happen then? You’d only cut me and make me angry, besides exhausting all your strength at one gasp. Whereas, if you took it easy--like this--” Here he made a light step forward and placed his open palm gently against the breast of Lncian, who instantly reeled back as if the piston-rod of a steam-engine had touched him, and dropped into the chair. “There!” exclaimed Cashel, standing aside and pointing to him. “It’s like pocketing a billiard-ball!” A chatter of surprise, amusement, and remonstrance spread through the rooms; and the company crowded towards the table. Lucian rose, white with rage, and for a moment entirely lost his self-control. Fortunately, the effect was to paralyze him; he neither moved nor spoke, and only betrayed his condition by his pallor and the hatred in his expression. Presently he felt a touch on his arm and heard his name pronounced by Lydia. Her voice calmed him. He tried to look at her, but his vision was disturbed; he saw double; the lights seemed to dunce before his eyes; and Lord Worthington’s voice, saying to Cashel, “Rather too practical, old fellow,” seemed to come from a remote corner of the room, and yet to be whispered into his ear. He was moving irresolutely in search of Lydia when his senses and his resentment were restored by a clap on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t have believed that now, would you?” said Cashel. “Don’t look startled; you’ve no bones broken. You had your little joke with me in your own way; and I had mine in MY own way. That’s only--” He stopped; his brave bearing vanished; he became limp and shamefaced. Lucian, without a word, withdrew with Lydia to the adjoining apartment, and left him staring after her with wistful eyes and slackened jaw. In the meantime Mrs. Hoskyn, an earnest-looking young woman, with striking dark features and gold spectacles, was looking for Lord Worthington, who betrayed a consciousness of guilt by attempting to avoid her. But she cut off his retreat, and confronted him with a steadfast gaze that compelled him to stand and answer for himself. “Who is that gentleman whom you introduced to me? I do not recollect his name.” “I am really awfully sorry, Mrs. Hoskyn. It was too bad of Byron. But Webber was excessively nasty.”