“No,” said Lydia, peremptorily interrupting him. “I will suppose nothing but what is.”
Cashel relapsed into melancholy. “If you only hadn’t been kind to me!” he said. “I think the reason I love you so much is that you’re the only person that is not afraid of me. Other people are civil because they daren’t be otherwise to the cock of the ring. It’s a lonely thing to be a champion. You knew nothing about that; and you knew I was afraid of you; and yet you were as good as gold.”
“It is also a lonely thing to be a very rich woman. People are afraid of my wealth, and of what they call my learning. We two have at least one experience in common. Now do me a great favor, by going. We have nothing further to say.”
“I’ll go in two seconds. But I don’t believe much in YOUR being lonely. That’s only fancy.”
“Perhaps so. Most feelings of this kind are only fancies.”
There was a pause. Then Cashel said,
“I don’t feel half so downhearted as I did a minute ago. Are you sure that you’re not angry with me?”
“Quite sure. Pray let me say good-bye.”
“And may I never see you again? Never at all?—world without end, amen?”
“Never as the famous prize-fighter. But if a day should come when Mr. Cashel Byron will be something better worthy of his birth and nature, I will not forget an old friend. Are you satisfied now?”