The years that had elapsed since Mrs. Byron's visit to Dr. Moncrief
had left no perceptible trace on her; indeed she looked younger now
than on that occasion, because she had been at the trouble of
putting on an artificial complexion. Her careless refinement of
manner was so different from the studied dignity and anxious
courtesy of the actor-manager, that Lydia could hardly think of them
as belonging to the same profession. Her voice was not her stage
voice; it gave a subtle charm to her most commonplace remarks, and
it was as different as possible from Cashel's rough tones. Yet Lydia
was convinced by the first note of it that she was Cashel's mother.
Besides, their eyes were so like that they might have made an
exchange without altering their appearance.
Mrs. Byron, coming to the point without delay, at once asked to see
the drawing. Lydia brought her to the library, were several
portfolios were ready for inspection. The precious fragment of
vellum was uppermost.
"Very interesting, indeed," said Mrs. Byron, throwing it aside after
one glance at it, and turning over some later prints, while Lydia,
amused, looked on in silence. "Ah," she said, presently, "here is
something that will suit me exactly. I shall not trouble to go
through the rest of your collection, thank you. They must do that
robe for me in violet silk. What is your opinion of it, Miss Carew?
I have noticed, from one or two trifles, that your taste is
exquisite."
"For what character do you intend the dress?"
"Constance, in 'King John.'"
"But silk was not made in western Europe until three hundred years
after Constance's death. And that drawing is a sketch of Marie de
Medicis by Rubens."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Byron, smoothly. "What does a dress three
hundred years out of date matter when the woman inside it is seven
hundred years out? What can be a greater anachronism than the death
of Prince Arthur three months hence on the stage of the Panopticon
Theatre? I am an artist giving life to a character in romance, I
suppose; certainly not a grown-up child playing at being somebody
out of Mrs. Markham's history of England. I wear whatever becomes
me. I cannot act when I feel dowdy."
"But what will the manager say?"
"I doubt if he will say anything. He will hardly venture to press on
me anything copied from that old parchment. As he will wear a suit
of armor obviously made the other day in Birmingham, why--!" Mrs.
Byron shrugged her shoulders, and did not take sufficient interest
in the manager's opinion to finish her sentence.