“And what shall I do now?”

“Nothing to-day, but eat your dinner, and drink your wine.  Ride over to-morrow, see Lord Cashel, and tell him—­but do it quite coolly, if you can—­exactly what you have heard, and how you have heard it, and beg him to assure Lord Kilcullen that he is mistaken in his notion that the match is off; and beg also that the report may not be repeated.  Do this; and do it as if you were Lord Cashel’s equal, not as if you were his son, or his servant.  If you are collected and steady with him for ten minutes, you’ll soon find that he will become bothered and unsteady.”

“That’s very easy to say here, but it’s not so easy to do there.  You don’t know him as I do:  he’s so sedate, and so slow, and so dull—­especially sitting alone, as he does of a morning, in that large, dingy, uncomfortable, dusty-looking book-room of his.  He measures his words like senna and salts, and their tone is as disagreeable.”

“Then do you drop out yours like prussic acid, and you’ll beat him at his own game.  Those are all externals, my dear fellow.  When a man knows he has nothing within his head to trust to,—­when he has neither sense nor genius, he puts on a wig, ties up his neck in a white choker, sits in a big chair, and frightens the world with his silence.  Remember, if you were not a baby, he would not be a bugbear.”

“And should I not ask to see Fanny?”

“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 metier.  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.