“He is, and the Marquis. They 're a-horseback on two ponies not worth fifty shilling apiece.”
“And that counter-jumper, Mosely, I'll wager he too thinks himself first favorite for the heiress.”
“Well, then, in the name of all that's lucky, why don't you thry your own chance?” said Joe, coaxingly.
“Is n't it because I did try that they have left me out of this invitation? Is n't it because they saw I was like to be the winning horse that they scratched me out of the race? Is n't it just because Gorman O'Shea was the man to carry off the prize that they would n't let me enter the lists?”
“There 's only two more as rich as her in all England,” chimed in Joe, “and one of them will never marry any but the Emperor of Roosia.”
“She has money enough!” muttered O'Shea. “And neither father nor mother, brother, sister, kith or kin,” continued Joe, in a tone of exultation that seemed to say he knew of no such good luck in life as to stand alone and friendless in the world.
“Those Heathcotes are related to her.”
“No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss Smithers, the maid. 'We 're as free as air, Mr. Rouse,' says she; 'wherever we have a “conceit,” we can follow it' That's plain talking, anyhow.”
“Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, with a roguish twinkle in his eye.
“Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, she's no beauty!”