Not one of the party made the slightest reference to the poor brother from whom Fanny’s new fortune had come, except as the lucky means of conveying it to her. There was no regret even pretended for his early death, no sympathy expressed with Fanny’s sorrow. And there was, moreover, an evident conviction in the minds of all the three, that Frank, of course, looked on the accident as a piece of unalloyed good fortune—a splendid windfall in his way, unattended with any disagreeable concomitants. This grated against his feelings, and made him conscious that he was not yet heartless enough to be quite fit for the society in which he found himself. The party soon went into the dining-room; and Frank at first got a little ease, for Fanny Wyndham seemed to be forgotten in the willing devotion which was paid to Blake’s soup; the interest of the fish, also, seemed to be absorbing; and though conversation became more general towards the latter courses, still it was on general subjects, as long as the servants were in the room. But, much to his annoyance, his mistress again came on the tapis [26], together with the claret. “You and Kilcullen don’t hit it off together—eh, Ballindine?” said Mat. “We never quarrelled,” answered Frank; “we never, however, were very intimate.” “I wonder at that, for you’re both fond of the turf. There’s a large string of his at Murphy’s now, isn’t there, Dot?” “Too many, I believe,” said Blake. “If you’ve a mind to be a purchaser, you’ll find him a very pleasant fellow—especially if you don’t object to his own prices.” “Faith I’ll not trouble him,” said Mat; “I’ve two of them already, and a couple on the turf and a couple for the saddle are quite enough to suit me. But what the deuce made him say, so publicly, that your match was off, Ballindine? He couldn’t have heard of Wyndham’s death at the time, or I should think he was after the money himself.” “I cannot tell; he certainly had not my authority,” said Frank. “Nor the lady’s either, I hope.” “You had better ask herself, Tierney; and, if she rejects me, maybe she’ll take you.” “There’s a speculation for you,” said Blake; “you don’t think yourself too old yet, I hope, to make your fortune by marriage?—and, if you don’t, I’m sure Miss Wyndham can’t.” “I tell you what, Dot, I admire Miss Wyndham much, and I admire a hundred thousand pounds more. I don’t know anything I admire more than a hundred thousand pounds, except two; but, upon my word, I wouldn’t take the money and the lady together.” “Well, that’s kind of him, isn’t it, Frank? So, you’ve a chance left, yet.” “Ah! but you forget Morris,” said Tierney; “and there’s yourself, too. If Ballindine is not to be the lucky man, I don’t see why either of you should despair.”