“By all means. Don’t leave Grey Abbey without seeing and making your peace with Miss Wyndham. That’ll be easy with you, because it’s your _métier_. I own that with myself it would be the most difficult part of the morning’s work. But don’t ask to see her as a favour. When you’ve done with the lord (and don’t let your conference be very long)—when you’ve done with the lord, tell him you’ll say a word to the lady; and, whatever may have been his pre-determination, you’ll find that, if you’re cool, he’ll be bothered, and he won’t know how to refuse; and if he doesn’t prevent you, I’m sure Miss Wyndham won’t.” “And if he asks about these wretched horses of mine?” “Don’t let him talk more about your affairs than you can help; but, if he presses you—and he won’t if you play your game well—tell him that you’re quite aware your income won’t allow you to keep up an establishment at the Curragh after you’re married.” “But about Brien Boru, and the Derby?” “Brien Boru! You might as well talk to him about your washing-bills! Don’t go into particulars—stick to generals. He’ll never ask you those questions unless he sees you shiver and shake like a half-whipped school-boy.” After a great deal of confabulation, in which Dot Blake often repeated his opinion of Lord Ballindine’s folly in not rejoicing at an opportunity of breaking off the match, it was determined that Frank should ride over the next morning, and do exactly what his friend proposed. If, however, one might judge from his apparent dread of the interview with Lord Cashel, there was but little chance of his conducting it with the coolness or assurance insisted on by Dot. The probability was, that when the time did come, he would, as Blake said, shiver and shake like a half-whipped school-boy. “And what will you do when you’re married, Frank?” said Blake; “for I’m beginning to think the symptoms are strong, and you’ll hardly get out of it now.” “Do! why, I suppose I’ll do much the same as others—have two children, and live happy ever afterwards.” “I dare say you’re right about the two children, only you might say two dozen; but as to the living happy, that’s more problematical. What do you mean to eat and drink?” “Eggs—potatoes and bacon—buttermilk, and potheen [21]. It’s odd if I can’t get plenty of them in Mayo, if I’ve nothing better.” “I suppose you will, Frank; but bacon won’t go down well after venison; and a course of claret is a bad preparative for potheen punch. You’re not the man to live, with a family, on a small income, and what the d––––l you’ll do I don’t know. You’ll fortify Kelly’s Court—that’ll be the first step.” “Is it against the Repealers?” “Faith, no; you’ll join them, of course: but against the sub-sheriff, and his officers—an army much more likely to crown their enterprises with success.” “You seem to forget, Dot, that, after all, I’m marrying a girl with quite as large a fortune as I had any right to expect.”