"Just a word. Promise me that you won't ask any of THEM that."
"Promise you! No. I cannot promise that."
"Oh, Lord!" said Cashel, with a groan.
"I have told you that I do not respect secrets. For the present I
will not ask; but I may change my mind. Meanwhile we must not hold
long conversations. I even hope that we shall not meet. There is
only one thing that I am too rich and grand for. That one
thing--mystification. Adieu."
Before he could reply she was away from him in the midst of a number
of gentlemen, and in conversation with one of them. Cashel seemed
overwhelmed. But in an instant he recovered himself, and stepped
jauntily before Mrs. Hoskyn, who had just come into his
neighborhood.
"I'm going, ma'am," he said. "Thank you for a pleasant evening--I'm
very sorry I forgot myself. Good-night."
Mrs. Hoskyn, naturally frank, felt some vague response within
herself to this address. But, though not usually at a loss for words
in social emergencies, she only looked at him, blushed slightly, and
offered her hand. He took it as if it were a tiny baby's hand and he
afraid of hurting it, gave it a little pinch, and turned to go. Mr.
Adrian Herbert, the painter, was directly in his way, with his back
towards him.
"If YOU please, sir," said Cashel, taking him gently by the ribs,
and moving him aside. The artist turned indignantly, but Cashel was
passing the doorway. On the stairs he met Lucian and Alice, and
stopped a moment to take leave of them.
"Good-night, Miss Goff," he said. "It's a pleasure to see the
country roses in your cheeks." He lowered his voice as he added, to
Lucian, "Don't you worry yourself over that little trick I showed
you. If any of your friends chafe you about it, tell them that it
was Cashel Byron did it, and ask them whether they think they could
have helped themselves any better than you could. Don't ever let a
person come within distance of yon while you're standing in that
silly way on both your heels. Why, if a man isn't properly planted
on his pins, a broom-handle falling against him will upset him.
That's the way of it. Good-night."
Lucian returned the salutation, mastered by a certain latent
dangerousness in Cashel, suggestive that he might resent a snub by
throwing the offender over the balustrade. As for Alice, she had
entertained a superstitious dread of him ever since Lydia had
pronounced him a ruffian. Both felt relieved when the house door,
closing, shut them out of his reach.