Lydia then narrated her adventure in Soho, and listened with the perfect patience of indifference to his censure of her imprudence in going there alone.
“And now, Lydia,” he added, “may I ask what you intend to do in this matter?”
“What would you have me do?”
“Drop his acquaintance at once. Forbid him your house in the most explicit terms.”
“A pleasant task!” said Lydia, ironically. “But I will do it—not so much, perhaps, because he is a prize-fighter, as because he is an impostor. Now go to the writing-table and draft me a proper letter to send him.”
Lucian’s face elongated. “I think,” he said, “you can do that better for yourself. It is a delicate sort of thing.”
“Yes. It is not so easy as you implied a moment ago. Otherwise I should not require your assistance. As it is—” She pointed again to the table.
Lucian was not ready with an excuse. He sat down reluctantly, and, after some consideration, indited the following:
“Miss Carew presents her compliments to Mr. Cashel Byron, and begs to inform him that she will not be at home during the remainder of the season as heretofore. She therefore regrets that she cannot have the pleasure of receiving him on Friday afternoon.”
“I think you will find that sufficient,” said Lucian.