By the time he had reached the lodge, he had determined that he must now do something, and that, as he was quite unable to come to any satisfactory conclusion on his own unassisted judgment, he must consult Blake, who, by the bye, was nearly as sick of Fanny Wyndham as he would have been had he himself been the person engaged to marry her.

As he rode round to the yard, he saw his friend standing at the door of one of the stables, with a cigar in his mouth.

“Well, Frank, how does Brien go to-day?  Not that he’ll ever be the thing till he gets to the other side of the water.  They’ll never be able to bring a horse out as he should be, on the Curragh, till they’ve regular trained gallops.  The slightest frost in spring, or sun in summer, and the ground’s so hard, you might as well gallop your horse down the pavement of Grafton Street.”

“Confound the horse,” answered Frank; “come here, Dot, a minute.  I want to speak to you.”

“What the d——­l’s the matter?—­he’s not lame, is he?”

“Who?—­what?—­Brien Boru?  Not that I know of.  I wish the brute had never been foaled.”

“And why so?  What crotchet have you got in your head now?  Something wrong about Fanny, I suppose?”

“Why, did you hear anything?”

“Nothing but what you’ve told me.”

“I’ve just seen Mat Tierney, and he told me that Kilcullen had declared, at a large dinner-party, yesterday, that the match between me and his cousin was finally broken off.”

“You wouldn’t believe what Mat Tierney would say?  Mat was only taking a rise out of you.”

“Not at all:  he was not only speaking seriously, but he told me what I’m very sure was the truth, as far as Lord Kilcullen was concerned.  I mean, I’m sure Kilcullen said it, and in the most public manner he could; and now, the question is, what had I better do?”

“There’s no doubt as to what you’d better do; the question is what you’d rather do?”

“But what had I better do? call on Kilcullen for an explanation?”

“That’s the last thing to think of.  No; but declare what he reports to be the truth; return Miss Wyndham the lock of hair you have in your desk, and next your heart, or wherever you keep it; write her a pretty note, and conclude by saying that the ’Adriatic’s free to wed another’.  That’s what I should do.”

“It’s very odd, Blake, that you won’t speak seriously to a man for a moment.  You’ve as much heart in you as one of your own horses.  I wish I’d never come to this cursed lodge of yours.  I’d be all right then.”

“As for my heart, Frank, if I have as much as my horses, I ought to be contented—­for race-horses are usually considered to have a good deal; as for my cursed lodge, I can assure you I have endeavoured, and, if you will allow me, I will still endeavour, to make it as agreeable to you as I am able; and as to my speaking seriously, upon my word, I never spoke more so.  You asked me what I thought you had better do—­and I began by telling you there would be a great difference between that and what you’d rather do.”