LITMIR.BIZ

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“that fellow had better be careful. I wish he would hold his tongue.”

      “You think it’s nonsense, do you?” said Cashel, after a pause. Then he raised one of the candles, and illuminated a picture that hung on the wall, “Look at that picture,” he said. “You see that fellow in armor — St. George and the dragon, or whatever he may be. He’s jumped down from his horse to fight the other fellow — that one with his head in a big helmet, whose horse has tumbled. The lady in the gallery is half crazy with anxiety for St. George; and well she may be. THERE’S a posture for a man to fight in! His weight isn’t resting on his legs; one touch of a child’s finger would upset him. Look at his neck craned out in front of him, and his face as flat as a full moon towards his man, as if he was inviting him to shut up both his eyes with one blow. You can all see that he’s as weak and nervous as a cat, and that he doesn’t know how to fight. And why does he give you that idea? Just because he’s all strain and stretch; because he isn’t at his ease; because he carries the weight of his body as foolishly as one of the ladies here would carry a hod of bricks; because he isn’t safe, steady, and light on his pins, as he would be if he could forget himself for a minute, and leave his body to find its proper balance of its own accord. If the painter of that picture had known his business he would never have sent his man up to the scratch in such a figure and condition as that. But you can see with one eye that he didn’t understand — I won’t say the principles of fighting, but the universal principles that I’ve told you of, that ease and strength, effort and weakness, go together. Now,” added Cashel, again addressing Lucian; “do you still think that notion of mine nonsense?” And he smacked his lips with satisfaction; for his criticism of the picture had produced a marked sensation, and he did not know that this was due to the fact that the painter, Mr. Adrian Herbert, was present.

      Lucian tried to ignore the question; but he found it impossible to ignore the questioner. “Since you have set the example of expressing opinions without regard to considerations of common courtesy,” he said, shortly, “I may say that your theory, if it can be called one, is manifestly absurd.”

      Cashel, apparently unruffled, but with more deliberation of manner than before, looked about him as if in search of a fresh illustration. His glance finally rested on the lecturer’s seat, a capacious crimson damask armchair that stood unoccupied at some distance behind Lucian.

      “I see you’re no judge of a picture,” said he, goodhumoredly, putting down the candle, and stepping in front of Lucian, who regarded him haughtily, and did not budge. “But just look at it in this way. Suppose you wanted to hit me the most punishing blow you possibly could. What would you do? Why, according to your own notion, you’d make a great effort. ‘The more effort the more force,’ you’d say to yourself. ‘I’ll smash him even if I burst myself in doing it.’ And what would happen then? You’d only cut me and make me angry, besides exhausting all your strength at one gasp. Whereas, if you took it easy — like this—” Here he made a light step forward and placed his open palm gently against the breast of Lncian, who instantly reeled back as if the piston-rod of a steam-engine had touched him, and dropped into the chair.

      “There!” exclaimed Cashel, standing aside and pointing to him. “It’s like pocketing a billiard-ball!”

      A chatter of surprise, amusement, and remonstrance spread through the rooms; and the company crowded towards the table. Lucian rose, white with rage, and for a moment entirely lost his selfcontrol. Fortunately, the effect was to paralyze him; he neither moved nor spoke, and only betrayed his condition by his pallor and the hatred in his expression. Presently he felt a touch on his arm and heard his name pronounced by Lydia. Her voice calmed him. He tried to look at her, but his vision was disturbed; he saw double; the lights seemed to dunce before his eyes; and Lord Worthington’s voice, saying to Cashel, “Rather too practical, old fellow,” seemed to come from a remote corner of the room, and yet to be whispered into his ear. He was moving irresolutely in search of Lydia when his senses and his resentment were restored by a clap on the shoulder.

      “You wouldn’t have believed that now, would you?” said Cashel. “Don’t look startled; you’ve no bones broken. You had your little joke with me in your own way; and I had mine in MY own way. That’s only—”

      He stopped; his brave bearing vanished; he became limp and shamefaced. Lucian, without a word, withdrew with Lydia to the adjoining apartment, and left him staring after her with wistful eyes and slackened jaw.

      In the meantime Mrs. Hoskyn, an earnest-looking young woman, with striking dark features and gold spectacles, was looking for Lord Worthington, who betrayed a consciousness of guilt by attempting to avoid her. But she cut off his retreat, and confronted him with a steadfast gaze that compelled him to stand and answer for himself.

      “Who is that gentleman whom you introduced to me? I do not recollect his name.”

      “I am really awfully sorry, Mrs. Hoskyn. It was too bad of Byron. But Webber was excessively nasty.”

      Mrs. Hoskyn, additionally annoyed by apologies which she had not invited, and which put her in the ignominious position of a complainant, replied coldly, “Mr. Byron! Thank you; I had forgotten,” and was turning away when Lydia came up to introduce Alice, and to explain why she had entered unannounced. Lord Worthington then returned to the subject of Cashel, hoping to improve his credit by claiming Lydia’s acquaintance with him.

      “Did you hear our friend Byron’s speech, Miss Carew? Very characteristic, I thought.”

      “Very,” said Lydia. “I hope Mrs. Hoskyn’s guests are all familiar with his style. Otherwise they must find him a little startling.”

      “Yes,” said Mrs. Hoskyn, beginning to wonder whether Cashel could be some well-known eccentric genius. “He is very odd. I hope Mr. Webber is not offended.”

      “He is the less pleased as he was in the wrong,” said Lydia. “Intolerant refusal to listen to an opponent is a species of violence that has no business in such a representative nineteenth-century drawingroom as yours, Mrs. Hoskyn. There was a fitness in rebuking it by skilled physical violence. Consider the prodigious tact of it, too! One gentleman knocks another halfway across a crowded room, and yet no one is scandalized.”

      “You see, Mrs. Hoskyn, the general verdict is ‘Served him right,’” said Lord Worthington.

      “With a rider to the effect that both gentlemen displayed complete indifference to the comfort of their hostess,” said Lydia. “However, men so rarely sacrifice their manners to their minds that it would be a pity to blame them. You do not encourage conventionality, Mrs. Hoskyn?”

      “I encourage good manners, though certainly not conventional manners.”

      “And you think there is a difference?”

      “I FEEL that there is a difference,” said Mrs. Hoskyn, with dignity.

      “So do I,” said Lydia; “but one can hardly call others to account for one’s own subjective ideas.”

      Lydia went away to another part of the room without waiting for a reply. Meanwhile, Cashel stood friendless in the middle of the room, stared at by most of his neighbors, and spoken to by none. Women looked at him coldly lest it should be suspected that they were admiring him; and men regarded him stiffly according to the national custom. Since his recognition of Lydia, his self-confidence had given place to a misgiving that he had been making a fool of himself. He began to feel lonely and abashed; and but for his professional habit of maintaining a cheerful countenance under adverse circumstances, he would have hid himself in the darkest corner of the room. He was getting sullen, and seeking consolation in thoughts of how terribly he could handle all these distantly-mannered, black-coated gentlemen if he chose, when Lord Worthington came up to him.

      “I had no idea you were such an orator, Byron,” he said. “You can go into the Church when you cut the other trade. Eh?”

      “I wasn’t brought up to the other trade,” said Cashel; “and I know how to talk to ladies and gentlemen as well as to what you’d suppose to be my own sort. Don’t you be anxious about me, my lord. I know how to make myself

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