Lydia did not retort. She waited a minute in pensive silence, and then said,
“Why do you not marry Alice Goff?”
“Oh, hang Alice Goff!”
“It is so easy to come at the man beneath the veneer by expertly chipping at his feelings,” said Lydia, laughing. “But I was serious, Lucian. Alice is energetic, ambitious, and stubbornly upright in questions of principle. I believe she would assist you steadily at every step of your career. Besides, she has physical robustness. Our student-stock needs an infusion of that.”
“Many thanks for the suggestion; but I do not happen to want to marry Miss Goff.”
“I invite you to consider it. You have not had time yet to form any new plans.”
“New plans! Then you absolutely refuse me — without a moment’s consideration?”
“Absolutely, Lucian. Does not your instinct warn you that it would be a mistake for you to marry me?”
“No; I cannot say that it does.”
“Then trust to mine, which gives forth no uncertain note on this question, as your favorite newspapers are fond of saying.”
“It is a question of feeling,” he said, in a constrained voice.
“Is it?” she replied, with interest. “You have surprised me somewhat, Lucian. I have never observed any of the extravagances of a lover in your conduct.”
“And you have surprised me very unpleasantly, Lydia. I do not think now that I ever had much hope of success; but I thought, at least, that my disillusion would be gently accomplished.”
“What! Have I been harsh?”
“I do not complain.”
“I was unlucky, Lucian; not malicious. Besides, the artifices by which friends endeavor to spare one another’s feelings are pretty disloyalties. I am frank with you. Would you have me otherwise?”
“Of course not. I have no right to be offended.”
“Not the least. Now add to that formal admission a sincere assurance that you ARE not offended.”
“I assure you I am not,” said Lucian, with melancholy resignation.
They had by this time reached Charlotte Street, and Lydia tacitly concluded the conference by turning towards the museum, and beginning to talk upon indifferent subjects. At the corner of Russell Street he got into a cab and drove away, dejectedly acknowledging a smile and wave of the hand with which Lydia tried to console him. She then went to the national library, where she forgot Lucian. The effect of the shock of his proposal was in store for her, but as yet she did not feel it; and she worked steadily until the library was closed and she had to leave. As she had been sitting for some hours, and it was still light, she did not take a cab, and did not even walk straight home. She had heard of a bookseller in Soho who had for sale a certain scarce volume which she wanted; and it occurred to her that the present was a good opportunity to go in search of him. Now, there was hardly a capital in western Europe that she did not know better than London. She had an impression that Soho was a region of quiet streets and squares, like Bloomsbury. Her mistake soon became apparent; but she felt no uneasiness in the narrow thoroughfares, for she was free from the common prejudice of her class that poor people are necessarily ferocious, though she often wondered why they were not so. She got as far as Great Pulteney Street in safety; but in leaving it she took a wrong turning and lost herself in a labyrinth of courts where a few workmen, a great many workmen’s wives and mothers, and innumerable workmen’s children were passing the summer evening at gossip and play. She explained her predicament to one of the women, who sent a little boy wilh her to guide her. Business being over for the day, the street to which the boy led her was almost deserted. The only shop that seemed to be thriving was a public-house, outside which a few roughs were tossing for pence.
Lydia’s guide, having pointed out her way to her, prepared to return to his playmates. She thanked him, and gave him the smallest coin in her purse, which happened to be a shilling. He, in a transport at possessing what was to him a fortune, uttered a piercing yell, and darted off to show the coin to a covey of small ragamuffins who had just raced into view round the corner at which the public-house stood. In his haste he dashed against one of the group outside, a powerfully built young man, who turned and cursed him. The boy retorted passionately, and then, overcome by pain, began to cry. When Lydia came up the child stood whimpering directly in her path; and she, pitying him, patted him on the head and reminded him of all the money he had to spend. He seemed comforted, and scraped his eyes with his knuckles in silence; but the man, who, having received a sharp kick on the ankle, was stung by Lydia’s injustice in according to the aggressor the sympathy due to himself, walked threateningly up to her and demanded, with a startling oath, whether HE had offered to do anything to the boy. And, as he refrained from applying any epithet to her, he honestly believed that in deference to Lydia’s sex and personal charms, he had expressed himself with studied moderation. She, not appreciating his forbearance, recoiled, and stepped into the roadway in order to pass him. Indignant at this attempt to ignore him, he again placed himself in her path, and was repeating his question with increased sternness, when a jerk in the pit of his stomach caused him a severe internal qualm, besides disturbing his equilibrium so rudely that he narrowly escaped a fall against the curb-stone. When he recovered himself he saw before him a showily dressed young man, who accosted him thus:
“Is that the way to talk to a lady, eh? Isn’t the street wide enough for two? Where’s your manners?”
“And who are you; and where are you shoving your elbow to?” said the man, with a surpassing imprecation.
“Come, come,” said Cashel Byron, admonitorily. “You’d better keep your mouth clean if you wish to keep your teeth inside it. Never you mind who I am.”
Lydia, foreseeing an altercation, and alarmed by the threatening aspect of the man, attempted to hurry away and send a policeman to Cashel’s assistance. But, on turning, she discovered that a crowd had already gathered, and that she was in the novel position of a spectator in the inner ring at what promised to be a street fight. Her attention was recalled to the disputants by a violent demonstration on the part of her late assailant. Cashel seemed alarmed; for he hastily retreated a step without regard to the toes of those behind him, and exclaimed, waving the other off with his open hand,
“Now, you just let me alone. I don’t want to have anything to say to you. Go away from me, I tell you.”
“You don’t want to have nothink to say to me! Oh! And for why? Because you ain’t man enough; that’s why. Wot do you mean by coming and shoving your elbow into a man’s breadbasket for, and then wanting to sneak off? Did you think I’d ‘a’ bin frightened of your velvet coat?”
“Very well,” said Cashel, pacifically; “we’ll say that I’m not man enough for you. So that’s settled. Are you satisfied?”
But the other, greatly emboldened, declared with many oaths that he would have Cashel’s heart out, and also that of Lydia, to whom he alluded in coarse terms. The crowd cheered, and called upon him to “go it.” Cashel then said, sullenly,
“Very well. But don’t you try to make out afterwards that I forced a quarrel on you. And now,” he added, with a grim change of tone that made Lydia shudder, and shifted her fears to the account of his antagonist, “I’ll make you wish you’d bit your tongue out before you said what you did a moment ago. So, take care of yourself.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of myself,” said the man, defiantly. “Put up your hands.”
Cashel surveyed his antagonist’s attitude with unmistakable disparagement. “You will know when my hands are up by the feel of the pavement,” he said, at last. “Better keep your coat on. You’ll fall softer.”
The rough expressed his repudiation of this counsel by beginning to strip energetically. A thrill of delight passed through the