Phineas, as he journeyed down to Saulsby, knew that he had in truth made up his mind. He was going thither nominally that he might listen to the advice of almost his oldest political friend before he resolved on a matter of vital importance to himself; but in truth be was making the visit because he felt that he could not excuse himself from it without unkindness and ingratitude. She had implored him to come, and he was bound to go, and there were tidings to be told which he must tell. It was not only that he might give her his reasons for not becoming an Under-Secretary of State that he went to Saulsby. He felt himself bound to inform her that he intended to ask Marie Goesler to be his wife. He might omit to do so till he had asked the question — and then say nothing of what he had done should his petition be refused; but it seemed to him that there would be cowardice in this. He was bound to treat Lady Laura as his friend in a special degree, as something more than his sister — and he was bound above all things to make her understand in some plainest manner that she could be nothing more to him than such a friend. In his dealings with her he had endeavoured always to be honest — gentle as well as honest; but now it was specially his duty to be honest to her. When he was young he had loved her, and had told her so — and she had refused him. As a friend he had been true to her ever since, but that offer could never be repeated. And the other offer — to the woman whom she was now accustomed to abuse — must be made. Should Lady Laura choose to quarrel with him it must be so; but the quarrel should not be of his seeking.

He was quite sure that he would refuse Mr Gresham’s offer, although by doing so he would himself throw away the very thing which he had devoted his life to acquire. In a foolish, soft moment — as he now confessed to himself — he had endeavoured to obtain for his own position the sympathy of the Minister. He had spoken of the calumnies which had hurt him, and of his sufferings when he found himself excluded from place in consequence of the evil stories which had been told of him. Mr Gresham had, in fact, declined to listen to him — had said Yes or No was all that he required, and had gone on to explain that he would be unable to understand the reasons proposed to be given even were he to hear them. Phineas had felt himself to be repulsed, and would at once have shown his anger, had not the Prime Minister silenced him for the moment by a civilly-worded repetition of the offer made.

But the offer should certainly be declined. As he told himself that it must be so, he endeavoured to analyse the causes of this decision, but was hardly successful. He had thought that he could explain the reasons to the Minister, but found himself incapable of explaining them to himself. In regard to means of subsistence he was no better off now than when he began the world. He was, indeed, without incumbrance, but was also without any means of procuring an income. For the last twelve months he had been living on his little capital, and two years more of such life would bring him to the end of all that he had. There was, no doubt, one view of his prospects which was bright enough. If Marie Goesler accepted him, he need not, at any rate, look about for the means of earning a living. But he assured himself with perfect confidence that no hope in that direction would have any influence upon the answer he would give to Mr Gresham. Had not Marie Goesler herself been most urgent with him in begging him to accept the offer; and was he not therefore justified in concluding that she at least had thought it necessary that he should earn his bread? Would her heart be softened towards him — would any further softening be necessary — by his obstinate refusal to comply with her advice? The two things had no reference to each other — and should be regarded by him as perfectly distinct. He would refuse Mr Gresham’s offer — not because he hoped that he might live in idleness on the wealth of the woman he loved — but because the chicaneries and intrigues of office had become distasteful to him. “I don’t now which are the falser,” he said to himself, “the mock courtesies or the mock indignations of statesmen.”

He found the Earl’s carriage waiting for him at the station and thought of many former days, as he was carried through the little town for which he had sat in Parliament, up to the house which he had once visited in the hope of wooing Violet Effingham. The women whom he had loved had all, at any rate, become his friends, and his thorough friendships were almost all with women. He and Lord Chiltern regarded each other with warm affection; but there was hardly ground for real sympathy between them. It was the same with Mr Low and Barrington Erle. Were he to die there would be no gap in their lives — were they to die there would be none in his. But with Violet Effingham — as he still loved to call her to himself — he thought it would be different. When the carriage stopped at the hall door he was thinking of her rather than of Lady Laura Kennedy.

He was shown at once to his bedroom — the very room in which he had written the letter to Lord Chiltern which had brought about the duel at Blankenberg. He was told that he would find Lady Laura in the drawing-room waiting for dinner for him. The Earl had already dined.

“I am so glad you are come,” said Lady Laura, welcoming him. “Papa is not very well and dined early, but I have waited for you, of course. Of course I have. You did not suppose I would let you sit down alone? I would not see you before you dressed because I knew that you must be tired and hungry and that the sooner you got down the better. Has it not been hot?”

“And so dusty! I only left Matching yesterday, and seem to have been on the railway ever since.”

“Government officials have to take frequent journeys, Mr Finn. How long will it be before you have to go down to Scotland twice in one week, and back as often to form a Ministry? Your next journey must be into the dining-room — in making which will you give me your arm?”

She was, he thought, lighter in heart and pleasanter in manner than she had been since her return from Dresden. When she had made her little joke about his future ministerial duties the servant had been in the room, and he had not, therefore, stopped her by a serious answer. And now she was solicitous about his dinner — anxious that he should enjoy the good things set before him, as is the manner of loving women, pressing him to take wine, and playing the good hostess in a things. He smiled, and ate, and drank, and was gracious under petting; but he had a weight on his bosom, knowing, as he did, that he must say that before long which would turn all playfulness either to anger or to grief. “And who had you at Matching?” she asked.

“Just the usual set.”

“Minus the poor old Duke?”

“Yes; minus the old Duke certainly. The greatest change is in the name. Lady Glencora was so specially Lady Glencora that she ought to have been Lady Glencora to the end. Everybody calls her Duchess, but it does not sound half so nice.”

“And is he altered?”

“Not in the least. You can trace the lines of lingering regret upon his countenance when people be-Grace him; but that is all. There was always about him a simple dignity which made it impossible that anyone should slap him on the back; and that of course remains. He is the same Planty Pall; but I doubt whether any man ever ventured to call him Planty Pall to his face since he left Eton.”

“The house was full, I suppose?”

“There were a great many there; among others Sir Gregory Grogram, who apologised to me for having tried to — put an end to my career.”

“Oh, Phineas!”

“And Sir Harry Coldfoot, who seemed to take some credit to himself for having allowed the jury to acquit me. And Chiltern and his wife were there for a day or two.”

“What could take Oswald there?”

“An embassy of State about the foxes. The Duke’s property runs into his country. She is one of the best women that ever lived.”

“Violet?”

“And one of the best wives.”

“She ought to be, for she is one of the happiest. What can she wish for that she has not got? Was your great friend there?”

He knew well what great friend she meant. “Madame Max Goesler was there.”

“I suppose so. I can never quite forgive Lady Glencora for her intimacy with that woman.”

“Do not abuse her, Lady Laura.”

“I do not intend — not to you at any rate. But I can better understand that she should receive the admiration of a gentleman than the affectionate friendship of a lady. That the old Duke should have been infatuated was intelligible.”

“She was very good to the old Duke.”

“But it was a kind of goodness which was hardly likely to recommend itself to his nephew’s wife. Never mind; we won’t talk about her now. Barrington was there?”

“For a day or two.”

“He seems to be wasting his life.”

“Subordinates in office generally do, I think.”

“Do not say that, Phineas.”

“Some few push through, and one can almost always foretell who the few will be. There are men who are destined always to occupy second-rate places, and who seem also to know their fate. I never heard Erle speak even of an ambition to sit in the Cabinet.”

“He likes to be useful.”

“All that part of the business which distresses me is pleasant to him. He is fond of arrangements, and delights in little party successes. Either to effect or to avoid a count-out is a job of work to his taste, and he loves to get the better of the Opposition by keeping it in the dark. A successful plot is as dear to him as to a writer of plays. And yet he is never bitter as is Ratler, or unscrupulous as was poor Mr Bonteen, or full of wrath as is Lord Fawn. Nor is he idle like Fitzgibbon. Erle always earns his salary.”

“When I said he was wastin............