Our hero was elected member for Loughton without any trouble to him or, as far as he could see, to anyone else. He made one speech from a small raised booth that was called a platform, and that was all that he was called upon to do. Mr Grating made a speech in proposing him, and Mr Shortribs another in seconding him; and these were all the speeches that were required. The thing seemed to be so very easy that he was afterwards almost offended when he was told that the bill for so insignificant a piece of work came to ￡247 13s. 9d. He had seen no occasion for spending even the odd forty-seven pounds. But then he was member for Loughton; and as he passed the evening alone at the inn, having dined in company with Messrs. Grating, Shortribs, and sundry other influential electors, he began to reflect that, after all, it was not so very great a thing to be a member of Parliament. It almost seemed that that which had come to him so easily could not be of much value.

On the following day he went to the castle, and was there when the Earl arrived. They two were alone together, and the Earl was very kind to him. “So you had no opponent after all,” said the great man of Loughton, with a slight smile.

“Not the ghost of another candidate.”

“I did not think there would be. They have tried it once or twice and have always failed. There are only one or two in the place who like to go one way just because their neighbours go the other. But, in truth, there is no conservative feeling in the place!”

Phineas, although he was at the present moment the member for Loughton himself, could not but enjoy the joke of this. Could there be any liberal feeling in such a place, or, indeed, any political feeling whatsoever? Would not Messrs. Grating and Shortribs have done just the same had it happened that Lord Brentford had been a Tory peer? “They all seemed to be very obliging,” said Phineas, in answer to the Earl.

“Yes, they are, There isn’t a house in the town, you know, let for longer than seven years, and most of them merely from year to year. And, do you know, I haven’t a farmer on the property with a lease — not one; and they don’t want leases. They know they’re safe. But I do like the people round me to be of the same way of thinking as myself about politics.”

On the second day after dinner — the last evening of Finn’s visit to Saulsby — the Earl fell suddenly into a confidential conversation about his daughter and his son, and about Violet Effingham. So sudden, indeed, and so confidential was the conversation, that Phineas was almost silenced for a while. A word or two had been said about Loughlinter, of the beauty of the place and of the vastness of the property. “I am almost afraid,” said Lord Brentford, “that Laura is not happy there.”

“I hope she is,” said Phineas.

“He is so hard and dry, and what I call exacting. That is just the word for it. Now Laura has never been used to that. With me she always had her own way in everything, and I always found her fit to have it. I do not understand why her husband should treat her differently.”

“Perhaps it is the temper of the man.”

“Temper, yes; but what a bad prospect is that for her! And she, too, has a temper, and so he will find if he tries her too far. I cannot stand Loughlinter. I told Laura so fairly. It is one of those houses in which a man cannot call his hours his own. I told Laura that I could not undertake to remain there for above a day or two.”

“It is very sad,” said Phineas.

“Yes, indeed; it is sad for her, poor girl; and very sad for me too. I have no one else but Laura — literally no one; and now I am divided from her! It seems that she has been taken as much away from me as though her husband lived in China. I have lost them both now!”

“I hope not, my lord.”

“I say I have. As to Chiltern, I can perceive that he becomes more and more indifferent to me every day. He thinks of me only as a man in his way who must die some day and may die soon.”

“You wrong him, Lord Brentford.”

“I do not wrong him at all. Why has he answered every offer I have made him with so much insolence as to make it impossible for me to put myself into further communion with him?”

“He thinks that you have wronged him.”

“Yes — because I have been unable to shut my eyes to his mode of living. I was to go on paying his debts, and taking no other notice whatsoever of his conduct!”

“I do not think he is in debt now.”

“Because his sister the other day spent every shilling of her fortune in paying them. She gave him ￡4,000! Do you think she would have married Kennedy but for that? I don’t. I could not prevent her. I had said that I would not cripple my remaining years of life by raising the money, and I could not go back from my word.”

“You and Chiltern might raise the money between you.”

“It would do no good now. She has married Mr Kennedy, and the money is nothing to her or to him. Chiltern might have put things right by marrying Miss Effingham if he pleased.”

“I think he did his best there.”

“No — he did his worst. He asked her to be his wife as a man asks for a railway ticket or a pair of gloves, which he buys with a price; and because she would not jump into his mouth he gave it up. I don’t believe he even really wanted to marry her. I suppose he has some disreputable connection to prevent it.”

“Nothing of the kind. He would marry her tomorrow if he could. My belief is that Miss Effingham is sincere in refusing him.”

“I don’t doubt her sincerity.”

“And that she will never change.”

“Ah, well; I don’t agree with you, and I daresay I know them both better than you do. But everything goes against me. I had set my heart upon it, and therefore of course I shall be disappointed. What is he going to do this autumn?”

“He is yachting now.”

“And who are with him?”

“I think the boat belongs to Captain Colepepper.”

“The greatest blackguard in all England! A man who shoots pigeons and rides steeplechases! And the worst of Chiltern is this, that even if he didn’t like the man, and if he were tired of this sort of life, he would go on just the same because he thinks it a fine thing not to give way.” This was so true that Phineas did not dare to contradict the statement, and therefore said nothing. “I had some faint hope,” continued the Earl, “while Laura could always watch him; because, in his way, he was fond of his sister. But that is all over now. She will have enough to do to watch herself!”

Phineas had felt that the Earl had put him down rather sharply when he had said that Violet would never accept Lord Chiltern, and he was therefore not a little surprised when Lord Brentford spoke again of Miss Effingham the following morning, holding in his hand a letter which he had just received from her. “They are to be at Loughlinter on the tenth,” he said, “and she purposes to come here for a couple of nights on her way.”

“Lady Baldock and all?”

“Well, yes; Lady Baldock and all. I am not very fond of Lady Baldock, but I will put up with her for a couple of days for the sake of having Violet. She is more like a child of my own now than anybody else. I shall not see her all the autumn afterwards. I cannot stand Loughlinter.”

“It will be better when the house is full.”

“You will be there, I suppose?”

“Well, no; I think not,” said Phineas.

“You have had enough of it, have you?” Phineas made no reply to this, but smiled slightly. “By Jove, I don’t wonder at it,” said the Earl. Phineas, who would have given all he had in the world to be staying in the same country house with Violet Effingham, could not explain how it had come to pass that he was obliged to absent himself. “I suppose you were asked?” said the Earl.

“Oh, yes, I was asked. Nothing can be kinder than they are.”

“Kennedy told me that you were coming as a matter of course.”

“I explained to him after that,” said Phineas, that I should not return. I shall go over to Ireland. I have a deal of hard reading to do, and I call get through it there without interruption.”

He went up from Saulsby to London on that day, and found himself quite alone in Mrs Bunce’s lodgings. I mean not only that he was alone at his lodgings, but he was alone at his club, and alone in the streets. July was not quite over, and yet all the birds of passage had migrated. Mr Mildmay, by his short session, had half ruined the London tradesmen, and had changed the summer mode of life of all those who account themselves to be anybody. Phineas, as he sat alone in his room, felt himself to be nobody. He had told the Earl that he was going to Ireland, and to Ireland he must go — because he had nothing else to do. He had been asked indeed to join one or two parties in their autumn plans. Mr Monk had wanted him to go to the Pyrenees, and Lord Chiltern had suggested th............