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.
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