“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 reestablished 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
