“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.”