“Not for the world, poor dear,” said Miss Skene, putting her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “Let me just peep at the name—to see who it’s from. Do, Cashel, DEAR.”
“It’s from nobody,” said Cashel. “Here, get out. If you don’t let me alone I’ll make it warm for you the next time you come to me for a lesson.”
“Very likely,” said Fanny, contemptuously. “Who had the best of it to-day, I should like to know?”
“Gev’ him a hot un on the chin with her right as ever I see,” observed Skene, with hoarse mirth.
Cashel went away from the table, out of Fanny’s reach; and read the letter, which ran thus:
“Regent’s Park.
“Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,—I am desirous that you should meet a lady friend of mine. She will be here at three o’clock to-morrow afternoon. You would oblige me greatly by calling on me at that hour.
“Yours faithfully,
“Lydia Carew.”
There was a long pause, during which there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock and the munching of shrimps by the ex-champion.