If you'd heard the fuss that even the
oldest fighting men made over it you'd have thought that a baby had
died from falling out of its cradle. A good milling does a man more
good than harm. And if all these--dog-bakers, and soldiers, and
pigeon-shooters, and fox-hunters, and the rest of them--are made
welcome here, why am I shut out like a brute beast?"
"Truly I do not know," said Lydia, puzzled; "unless it be that your
colleagues have failed to recommend themselves to society by their
extra-professional conduct as the others have."
"I grant you that fighting men ar'n't gentlemen, as a rule. No more
were painters, or poets, once upon a time. But what I want to know
is this: Supposing a fighting man has as good manners as your
friends, and is as well born, why shouldn't he mix with them and be
considered their equal?"
"The distinction seems arbitrary, I confess. But perhaps the true
remedy would be to exclude the vivisectors and soldiers, instead of
admitting the prize-fighters. Mr. Cashel Byron," added Lydia,
changing her manner, "I cannot discuss this with you. Society has a
prejudice against you. I share it; and I cannot overcome it. Can you
find no nobler occupation than these fierce and horrible encounters
by which you condescend to gain a living?"
"No," said Cashel, flatly.
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