Phineas took a vacant seat next to Mr. Monk—who was deficient perhaps in royal instincts—and asked him in a whisper his opinion of what had taken place. “Do not think any more of it,” said Mr. Monk.
“That is so much more easily said than done. How am I not to think of it?”
“Of course I mean that you are to act as though you had forgotten it.”
“Did you ever know a more gratuitous insult? Of course he was talking of that Lady Eustace.”
“I had not been listening to him before, but no doubt he was. I need not tell you now what I think of Mr. Bonteen. He is not more gracious in my eyes than he is in yours. Tonight I fancy he has been drinking, which has not improved him. You may be sure of this, Phineas—that the less of resentful anger you show in such a wretched affair as took place just now, the more will be the blame attached to him and the less to you.”
“Why should any blame be attached to me?”
“I don’t say that any will unless you allow yourself to become loud and resentful. The thing is not worth your anger.”
“I am angry.”
“Then go to bed at once, and sleep it off. Come with me, and we’ll walk home together.”
“It isn’t the proper thing, I fancy, to leave the room while the Prince is here.”
“Then I must do the improper thing,” said Mr. Monk. “I haven’t a key, and I musn’t keep my servant up any longer. A quiet man like me can creep out without notice. Good night, Phineas, and take my advice about this. If you can’t forget it, act and speak and look as though you had forgotten it.” Then Mr. Monk, without much creeping, left the room.
The club was very full, and there was a clatter of voices, and the clatter round the Prince was the noisiest and merriest. Mr. Bonteen was there, of course, and Phineas as he sat alone could hear him as he edged his words in upon the royal ears. Every now and again there was a royal joke, and then Mr. Bonteen’s laughter was conspicuous. As far as Phineas could distinguish the sounds no special amount of the royal attention was devoted to Mr. Bonteen. That very able editor, and one of the Academicians, and the poet, seemed to be the most honoured, and when the Prince went—which he did when his cigar was finished—Phineas observed with inward satisfaction that the royal hand, which was given to the poet, to the editor, and to the painter, was not extended to the President of the Board of Trade. And then, having taken delight in this, he accused himself of meanness in having even observed a matter so trivial. Soon after this a ruck of men left the club, and then Phineas rose to go. As he went down the stairs Barrington Erle followed him with Laurence Fitzgibbon, and the three stood for a moment at the door in the street talking to each other. Finn’s way lay eastward from the club, whereas both Erle and Fitzgibbon would go westwards towards their homes. “How well the Prince behaves at these sort of places!” said Erle.
“Princes ought to behave well,” said Phineas.
“Somebody else didn’t behave very well—eh, Finn, my boy?” said Laurence.
“Somebody else, as you call him,” replied Phineas, “is very unlike a Prince, and never does behave well. Tonight, however, he surpassed himself.”
“Don’t bother your mind about it, old fellow,” said Barrington.
“I tell you what it is, Erle,” said Phineas. “I don’t think that I’m a vindictive man by nature, but with that man I mean to make it even some of these days. You know as well as I do what it is he has done to me, and you know also whether I have deserved it. Wretched reptile that he is! He has pretty nearly been able to ruin me—and all from some petty feeling of jealousy.”
“Finn, me boy, don’t talk like that,” said Laurence.
“You shouldn’t show your hand,” said Barrington.
“I know what you mean, and it’s all very well. After your different fashions you two have been true to me, and I don’t care how much you see of my hand. That man’s insolence angers me to such an extent that I cannot refrain from speaking out. He hasn’t spirit enough to go out with me, or I would shoot him.”
“Blankenberg, eh!” said Laurence, alluding to the now notorious duel which had once been fought in that place between Phineas and Lord Chiltern.
“I would,” continued the angry man. “There are times in which one is driven to regret that there has come an end to duelling, and there is left to one no immediate means of resenting an injury.”
As they were speaking Mr. Bonteen came out from the front door alone, and seeing the three men standing, passed on towards the left, eastwards. “Good night, Erle,” he said. “Good night, Fitzgibbon.” The two men answered him, and Phineas stood back in the gloom. It was about one o’clock and the night was very dark. “By George, I do dislike that man,” said Phineas. Then, with a laugh, he took a life-preserver out of his pocket, and made an action with it as though he were striking some enemy over the head. In those days there had been much garotting in the streets, and writers in the Press had advised those who walked
