On that Wednesday evening Phineas Finn was at The Universe. He dined at the house of Madame Goesler, and went from thence to the club in better spirits than he had known for some weeks past. The Duke and Duchess had, been at Madame Goesler’s, and Lord and Lady Chiltern, who were now up in town, with Barrington Erle, and — as it had happened — old Mr Maule. The dinner had been very pleasant, and two or three words had been spoken which had tended to raise the heart of our hero. In the first place Barrington Erle had expressed a regret that Phineas was not at his old post at the Colonies, and the young Duke had re-echoed it. Phineas thought that the manner of his old friend Erle was more cordial to him than it had been lately, and even that comforted him. Then it was a delight to him to meet the Chilterns, who were always gracious to him. But perhaps his greatest pleasure came from the reception which was accorded by his hostess to Mr Maule, which was of a nature not easy to describe. It had become evident to Phineas that Mr Maule was constant in his attentions to Madame Goesler; and, though he had no purpose of his own in reference to the lady — though he was aware that former circumstances, circumstances of that previous life to which he was accustomed to look back as to another existence, made it impossible that he should have any such purpose — still he viewed Mr Maule with dislike. He had once ventured to ask her whether she really liked “that old padded dandy.” She had answered that she did like the old dandy. Old dandies, she thought, were preferable to old men who did not care how they looked — and as for the padding, that was his affair, not hers. She did not know why a man should not have a pad in his coat, as well as a woman one at the back of her head. But Phineas had known that this was her gentle raillery, and now he was delighted to find that she continued it, after a still more gentle fashion, before the man’s face. Mr Maule’s manner was certainly peculiar. He was more than ordinarily polite — and was afterwards declared by the Duchess to have made love like an old gander. But Madame Goesler, who knew exactly how to receive such attentions, turned a glance now and then upon Phineas Finn, which he could now read with absolute precision. “You see how I can dispose of a padded old dandy directly he goes an inch too far.” No words could have said that to him more plainly than did these one or two glances — and, as he had learned to dislike Mr Maule, he was gratified.
Of course they all talked about Lady Eustace and Mr Emilius. “Do you remember how intensely interested the dear old Duke used to be when we none of us knew what had become of the diamonds?” said the Duchess.
“And how you took her part,” said Madame Goesler.
“So did you — just as much as I; and why not? She was a most interesting young woman, and I sincerely hope we have not got to the end of her yet. The worst of it is that she has got into such — very bad hands. The Bonteens have taken her up altogether. Do you know her, Mr Finn?”
“No, Duchess — and am hardly likely to make her acquaintance while she remains where she is now.” The Duchess laughed and nodded her head. All the world knew by this time that she had declared herself to be the sworn enemy of the Bonteens.
And there had been some conversation on that terribly difficult question respecting the foxes in Trumpeton Wood. “The fact is, Lord Chiltern,” said the Duke, “I’m as ignorant as a child. I would do right if I knew how. What ought I to do? Shall I import some foxes?”
“I don’t suppose, Duke, that in all England there is a spot in which foxes are more prone to breed.”
“Indeed. I’m very glad of that. But something goes wrong afterwards, I fear.”
“The nurseries are not well managed, perhaps,” said the Duchess.
“Gipsy kidnappers are allowed about the place,” said Madame Goesler.
“Gipsies!” exclaimed the Duke.
“Poachers!” said Lord Chiltern. “But it isn’t that we mind. We could deal with that ourselves if the woods were properly managed. A head of game and foxes can be reared together very well, if — .”
“I don’t care a straw for a head of game, Lord Chiltern. As far as my own tastes go, I would wish that there was neither a pheasant nor a partridge nor a hare on any property that I own. I think that sheep and barn-door fowls do better for everybody in the long run, and that men who cannot live without shooting should go beyond thickly-populated regions to find it. And, indeed, for myself, I must say the same about foxes. They do not interest me, and I fancy that they will gradually be exterminated.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Lord Chiltern.
“But I do not find myself called upon to exterminate them myself,” continued the Duke. “The number of men who amuse themselves by riding after one fox is too great for me to wish to interfere with them. And I know that my neighbours in the country conceive it to be my duty to have foxes for them. I will oblige them, Lord Chiltern, as far as I can without detriment to other duties.”
“You leave it to me,” said the Duchess to her neighbour, Lord Chiltern. “I’ll speak to Mr Fothergill myself, and have it put right.” It unfortunately happened, however, that Lord Chiltern got a letter the very next morning from old Doggett telling him that a litter of young cubs had been destroyed that week in Trumpeton Wood.
Barrington Erle and Phineas went off to The Universe together, and as they went the old terms of intimacy seemed to be re-established between them. “Nobody can be so sorry as I am,” said Barrington, “at the manner in which things have gone. When I wrote to you, of course, I thought it certain that, if we came in, you would come with us.”
“Do not let that fret you.”
“But it does fret me — very much. There are so many slips that of course no one can answer for anything.”
“Of course not. I know who has been my friend.”
“The joke of it is, that he himself is at present so utterly friendless. The Duke will hardly speak to him. I know that as a fact. And Gresham has begun to find something is wrong. We all hoped that he would refuse to come in without a seat in the Cabinet — but that was too good to be true. They say he talks of resigning. I shall believe it when I see it. He’d better not play any tricks, for if he did resign, it would be accepted at once.” Phineas, when he heard this, could not help thinking how glorious it would be if Mr Bonteen were to resign, and if the place so vacated, or some vacancy so occasioned, were to be filled by him!
They reached the club together, and as they went up the stairs, they heard the hum of many voices in the room. “All the world and his wife are here tonight,” said Phineas. They overtook a couple of men at the door, so that there was something of the bustle of a crowd as they entered. There was a difficulty in finding places in which to put their coats and hats — for the accommodation of The Universe is not great. There was a knot of men talking not far from them, and among the voices Phineas could clearly hear that of Mr Bonteen. Ratler’s he had heard before, and also Fitzgibbon’s, though he had not distinguished any words from them. But those spoken by Mr Bonteen he did distinguish very plainly. “Mr Phineas Finn, or some such fellow as that, would be after her at once,” said Mr Bonteen. Then Phineas walked immediately among the knot of men and showed himself. As soon as he heard his name mentioned, he doubted for a moment what he would do. Mr Bonteen when speaking had not known of his presence, and it might be his duty not to seem to have listened. But the speech had been made aloud, in the open room — so that those who chose might listen — and Phineas could not but have heard it. In that moment he resolved that he was bound to take notice of what he had heard. “What is it, Mr Bonteen, that Phineas Finn will do?” he asked.
Mr Bonteen had been — dining. He was not a man by any means habitually intemperate, and now anyone saying that he was tipsy would have maligned him. But he was flushed with much wine, and he was a man whose arrogance in that condition was apt to become extreme. “In vino veritas!’ The sober devil can hide his cloven hoof; but when the devil drinks he loses his cunning and grows honest. Mr Bonteen looked Phineas full in the face a second or two before he answered, and then said — quite aloud — “You have crept upon us unawares, sir.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” said Phineas. “I have come in as any other man comes.”
“Listeners at any rate never hear any good of themselves.”
Then there were present among those assembled clear indications of disapproval of Bonteen’s conduct. In these days — when no palpable and immediate punishment is at hand for personal insolence from man to man — personal insolence to one man in a company seems almost to constitute an insult to everyone present. When men could fight readily, an arrogant word or two between two known to be hostile to each other was only an invitation to a duel, and the angry man was doing that for which it was known that he could be made to pay. There was, or it was often thought that there was, a real spirit in the angry man’s conduct, and they who were his friends before became perhaps more his friends when he had thus shown that he had an enemy. But a different feeling prevails at present — a feeling so different, that we may almost say that a man in general society cannot speak even roughly to any but his intimate comrades without giving offence to all around him. Men have learned to hate the nuisance of a row, and to feel that their comfort is endangered if a man prone to rows gets among them. Of all candidates at a club a known quarreller is more sure of blackballs now than even in the times when such a one provoked duels. Of all bores he is the worst; and there is always an unexpressed feeling that such a one exacts more from his company than his share of attention. This is so strong, that too often the man quarrelled with, though he be as innocent as was Phineas on the present occasion, is made subject to the general aversion whic............