Cashel’s face began to glow, and the roots of his hair to tingle. “One thing more,” he said. “If you meet me by chance in the street before that, will you give me a look? I don’t ask for a regular bow, but just a look to keep me going?”
“I have no intention of cutting you,” said Lydia, gravely. “But do not place yourself purposely in my way.”
“Honor bright, I won’t. I’ll content myself with walking through that street in Soho occasionally. Now I’m off; I know you’re in a hurry to be rid of me. So good-b—Stop a bit, though. Perhaps when that time you spoke of comes, you will be married.”
“It is possible; but I am not likely to marry. How many more things have you to say that you have no right to say?”
“Not one,” said Cashel, with a laugh that rang through the house. “I never was happier in my life, though I’m crying inside all the time. I’ll have a try for you yet. Good-bye. No,” he added, turning from her proffered hand; “I daren’t touch it; I should eat you afterwards.” And he ran out of the room.
In the hall was Bashville, pale and determined, waiting there to rush to the assistance of his mistress at her first summons. He had a poker concealed at hand. Having just heard a great laugh, and seeing Cashel come down-stairs in high spirits, he stood stock-still, and did not know what to think.
“Well, old chap,” said Cashel, boisterously, slapping him on the shoulder, “so you’re alive yet. Is there any one in the dining-room?”
“No,” said Bashville.
“There’s a thick carpet there to fall soft on,” said Cashel, pulling Bashville into the room. “Come along. Now, show me that little trick of yours again. Come, don’t be afraid. Down with me. Take care you don’t knock my head against the fire-irons.”
“But—”