"What's that?"
"That you don't ask her. First of all, you haven't known her long enough; and she hasn't known you long enough to find out whether you are properly matched. Second, I'm not so sure that I'm not going to ask her myself."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Dashwood.
"Oh, you needn't beg my pardon. I'm just telling you what's in my mind. I'm so moithered with one thing and another, I've no heart for anything at present, but just this horse I told you about, you remember—Garryowen. And I'm not a man to stand between two young people if their minds are set on each other. But the question is, Are they? You care for her, but does she care for you? So, take an open field and no favour. Don't go sticking at Mrs. Sheelan's, seeing her maybe only once in a week, but come right to Drumgool. No proposing, mind you, or any of that rubbish. I'm giving you your chance fair and square, and I'm telling you fair and square it's in my mind that I may ask her myself. So, there you are. Take the offer or leave it."
Mr. Dashwood paused for a moment before this astonishing proposition, which upset all his preconceived ideas of love affairs; then the straightness and strangeness and sense of it went to his heart. Surely never had a man a more generous rival than this, and the sporting nature and the humour of it completed the business, and he held out his hand.
"Right," said he. "Another man would have acted differently. Yes, I'll come. And I'll play the game; get to know her better, and then, why, if she cares for me, it's the fortune of war."
"That's it," said French, "and now I want to tell you about the horse."
He gave the full history of his predicament, of the league, and the money worries, and the enemies who seemed bent on destroying his chance of success. "If I could only get the horse out of the country," said French. "But I can't."
"Can't you?" said Bobby, who had followed the tale with sparkling eyes and rising colour. "Who says you can't? I say you can, and I'll show you how."
He rose up and paced the floor.