"Mr. Byron, sir?"
"That's me," said Cashel. "I say, is there any one with her?"
"Only a lady, sir."
"Oh, d--n! Well, it can't be helped. Never say die."
The girl led him then to a door, opened it, and when he entered shut
it softly without announcing him. The room in which he found himself
was a long one, lighted from the roof. The walls were hung with
pictures. At the far end, with their backs towards him, were two
ladies: Lydia, and a woman whose noble carriage and elegant form
would, have raised hopes of beauty in a man less preoccupied than
Cashel. But he, after advancing some distance with his eyes on
Lydia, suddenly changed countenance, stopped, and was actually
turning to fly, when the ladies, hearing his light step, faced about
and rooted him to the spot. As Lydia offered him her hand, her
companion, who had surveyed the visitor first with indifference, and
then with incredulous surprise, exclaimed, with a burst of delighted
recognition, like a child finding a long-lost plaything, "My darling
boy!" And going to Cashel with the grace of a swan, she clasped him
in her arms. In acknowledgment of which he thrust his red,
discomfited face over her shoulder, winked at Lydia with his tongue
in his cheek, and said,
"This is what you may call the voice of nature, and no mistake.
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