“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Byron, indignantly. “Oh, they DARE not say so! Impossible. Why did you not tell me at once?”
“I didn’t think about it,” said Cashel, hastily excusing himself. “I was too young to care. It doesn’t matter now. My father is dead, isn’t he?”
“He died when you were a baby. You have often made me angry with you, poor little innocent, by reminding me of him. Do not talk of him to me.”
“Not if you don’t wish. Just one thing, though, mamma. Was he a gentleman?”
“Of course. What a question!”
“Then I am as good as any of the swells that think themselves her equals? She has a cousin in the government office; a fellow who gives out that he is the home secretary, and most likely sits in a big chair in a hall and cheeks the public. Am I as good as he is?”
“You are perfectly well connected by your mother’s side, Cashel. The Byrons are only commoners; but even they are one of the oldest county families in England.”
Cashel began to show signs of excitement. “How much a year are they worth?” he demanded.
“I do not know how much they are worth now. Your father was always in difficulties, and so was his father. But Bingley is a miser. Five thousand a year, perhaps.”
“That’s an independence. That’s enough. She said she couldn’t expect a man to be so thunderingly rich as she is.”