“What I mean is this,” resumed he: “that it's all balderdash to talk of the hardship of doing things that we never planned out for ourselves. Sure, ain't we doing them every moment of our lives? Ain't I doing something because you contrived it? and ain't you doing something else because I left it in your way?”
“It comes to this, then, that you 'd marry a girl who did n't care for you, if the circumstances were such as to oblige her to accept you?”
“Not absolutely,—not unreservedly,” replied O'Shea.
“Well, what is the reservation? Let us hear it.”
“Her fortune ought to be suitable.”
“Oh, this is monstrous!”
“Hear me out before you condemn me. In marriage, as in everything else, you must take it out in malt or in meal: don't fancy that you 're going to get love and money too. It's only in novels such luck exists.”
“I'm very glad I do not share your sentiments,” said Charles, sternly.
“They 're practical, anyway. But now to another point. Here we are, sitting by the fire in all frankness and candor. Answer me fairly two questions: Have you given up the race?”
“Yes.”