“Afraid, man?  I’m as much afraid of Lord Cashel as you are.  I don’t think I’ve shown myself much afraid; but I don’t choose to make him my guardian, just when he’s ceasing to be hers; nor do I wish, just now, to break with Grey Abbey altogether.”

“Do you mean to go over there from the Curragh next week?”

“I don’t think I shall.  They don’t like me a bit too well, when I’ve the smell of the stables on me.”

“There it is, again, Frank!  What is it to you what Lord Cashel likes?  If you wish to see Miss Wyndham, and if the heavy-pated old Don doesn’t mean to close his doors against you, what business has he to inquire where you came from?  I suppose he doesn’t like me a bit too well; but you’re not weak enough to be afraid to say that you’ve been at Handicap Lodge?”

“The truth is, Dot, I don’t think I’ll go to Grey Abbey at all, till Fanny’s of age.  She only wants a month of it now; and then I can meet Lord Cashel in a business way, as one man should meet another.”

“I can’t for the life of me,” said Blake, “make out what it is that has set that old fellow so strong against horses.  He won the Oaks twice himself, and that not so very long ago; and his own son, Kilcullen, is deeper a good deal on the turf than I am, and, by a long chalk less likely to pull through, as I take it.  But here’s the Connaught man on the stairs,—­I could swear to Galway by the tread of his foot!”—­and Martin knocked at the door, and walked in.

“Well, Kelly,” said Lord Ballindine, “how does Dublin agree with you?” And, “I hope I see your lordship well, my lord?” said Martin.

“How are they all at Dunmore and Kelly’s Court?”

“Why thin, they’re all well, my lord, except Sim Lynch—­and he’s dead.  But your lordship’ll have heard that.”

“What, old Simeon Lynch dead!” said Blake, “well then, there’s promotion.  Peter Mahon, that was the agent at Castleblakeney, is now the biggest rogue alive in Connaught.”

“Don’t swear to that,” said Lord Ballindine.  “There’s some of Sim’s breed still left at Dunmore.  It wouldn’t be easy to beat Barry, would it, Kelly?”

“Why then, I don’t know; I wouldn’t like to be saying against the gentleman’s friend that he spoke of; and doubtless his honour knows him well, or he wouldn’t say so much of him.”

“Indeed I do,” said Blake.  “I never give a man a good character till I know he deserves it.  Well, Frank, I’ll go and dress, and leave you and Mr. Kelly to your business,” and he left the room.

“I’m sorry to hear you speak so hard agin Mr. Barry, my lord,” began Martin.  “May-be he mayn’t be so bad.  Not but that he’s a cross-grained piece of timber to dale with.”

“And why should you be sorry I’d speak against him?  There’s not more friendship, I suppose, between you and Barry Lynch now, than there used to be?”

“Why, not exactly frindship, my lord; but I’ve my rasons why I’d wish you not to belittle the Lynches.  Your lordship might forgive them all, now the old man’s dead.”