harassed, annoyed,
and disappointed. He did not see what steps he could take, or how he
could manage to see her. It would be impossible for him to go to Grey
Abbey, after having been, as he felt, turned out by Lord Cashel. Other
things troubled him also. What should he now do with himself? It was
true that he could go down to his own house; but everyone at Kelly's
Court expected him to bring with him a bride and a fortune; and,
instead of that, he would have to own that he had been jilted, and
would be reduced to the disagreeable necessity of borrowing money from
his own tenants. And then, that awful subject, money--took possession
of him. What the deuce was he to do? What a fool he had been, to be
seduced on to the turf by such a man as Blake! And then, he expressed a
wish to himself that Blake had been--a long way off before he ever saw
him. There he was, steward of the Curragh, the owner of the best horse
in Ireland, and absolutely without money to enable him to carry on the
game till he could properly retreat from it!

Then he was a little unfair upon his friend: he accused him of knowing
his position, and wishing to take advantage of it; and, by the time he
had got to Igoe's, his mind was certainly not in a very charitable mood
towards poor Dot. He had, nevertheless, determined to accept his offer,
and to take a last look at the three Milesians.

The people about the stables always made a great fuss with Lord
Ballindine, partly because he was one of the stewards, and partly
because he was going to run a crack horse for the Derby in England;
and though, generally speaking, he did not care much for personal
complimentary respect, he usually got chattered and flattered into good
humour at Igoe's.

"Well, my lord," said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man,
who usually presided over the yard, "I think we'll be apt to get
justice to Ireland on the downs this year. That is, they'll give us
nothing but what we takes from 'em by hard fighting, or running, as the
case may be."

"How's Brien looking this morning, Grady?"

"As fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal: he's ready,
this moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put
on the Curragh, anyway."

"I'm afraid you're putting him on too forward."

"Too forrard, is it, my lord? not a bit. He's a hoss as naturally don't
pick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. He's this moment all wind and
bottom, though, as one may sa