“But the great Gamaliels will not have a novice on their footstools.”
“Then sit at no man’s feet. Is it not astonishing that the price generally put upon any article by the world is that which the owner puts on it?—and that this is specially true of a man’s own self? If you herd with Ratler, men will take it for granted that you are a Ratlerite, and no more. If you consort with Greshams and Pallisers, you will equally be supposed to know your own place.”
“I never knew a Mentor,” said Phineas, “so apt as you are to fill his Telemachus with pride.”
“It is because I do not think your fault lies that way. If it did, or if I thought so, my Telemachus, you may be sure that I should resign my position as Mentor. Here are Mr. Kennedy and Lady Glencora and Mrs. Gresham on the steps.” Then they went up through the Ionic columns on to the broad stone terrace before the door, and there they found a crowd of men and women. For the legislators and statesmen had written their letters, and the ladies had taken their necessary rest.
Phineas, as he was dressing, considered deeply all that Lady Laura had said to him—not so much with reference to the advice which she had given him, though that also was of importance, as to the fact that it had been given by her. She had first called herself his Mentor; but he had accepted the name and had addressed her as her Telemachus. And yet he believed himself to be older than she—if, indeed, there was any difference in their ages. And was it possible that a female Mentor should love her Telemachus—should love him as Phineas desired to be loved by Lady Laura? He would not say that it was impossible. Perhaps there had been mistakes between them;—a mistake in his manner of addressing her, and another in hers of addressing him. Perhaps the old bachelor of forty-three was not thinking of a wife. Had this old bachelor of forty-three been really in love with Lady Laura, would he have allowed her to walk home alone with Phineas, leaving her with some flimsy pretext of having to look at his sheep? Phineas resolved that he must at any rate play out his game—whether he were to lose it or to win it; and in playing it he must, if possible, drop something of that Mentor and Telemachus style of conversation. As to the advice given him of herding with Greshams and Pallisers, instead of with Ratlers and Fitzgibbons—he must use that as circumstances might direct. To him, himself, as he thought of it all, it was sufficiently astonishing that even the Ratlers and Fitzgibbons should admit him among them as one of themselves. “When I think of my father and of the old house at Killaloe, and remember that hitherto I have done nothing myself, I cannot understand how it is that I should be at Loughlinter.” There was only one way of understanding it. If Lady Laura really loved him, the riddle might be read.
The rooms at Loughlinter were splendid, much larger and very much more richly furnished than those at Saulsby. But there was a certain stiffness in the movement of things, and perhaps in the manner of some of those present, which was not felt at Saulsby. Phineas at once missed the grace and prettiness and cheery audacity of Violet Effingham, and felt at the same time that Violet Effingham would be out of her element at Loughlinter. At Loughlinter they were met for business. It was at least a semipolitical, or perhaps rather a semiofficial gathering, and he became aware that he ought not to look simply for amusement. When he entered the drawing-room before dinner, Mr. Monk and Mr. Palliser, and Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Gresham, with sundry others, were standing in a wide group before the fireplace, and among them were Lady Glencora Palliser and Lady Laura and Mrs. Bonteen. As he approached them it seemed as though a sort of opening was made for himself; but he could see, though others did not, that the movement came from Lady Laura.
“I believe, Mr. Monk,” said Lady Glencora, “that you and I are the only two in the whole party who really know what we would be at.”
“If I must be divided from so many of my friends,” said Mr. Monk, “I am happy to go astray in the company of Lady Glencora Palliser.”
“And might I ask,” said Mr. Gresham, with a peculiar smile for which he was famous, “what it is that you and Mr. Monk are really at?”
“Making men and women all equal,” said Lady Glencora. “That I take to be the gist of our political theory.”
“Lady Glencora, I must cry off,” said Mr. Monk.
“Yes;—no doubt. If I were in the Cabinet myself I should not admit so much. There are reticences—of course. And there is an official discretion.”
“But you don’t mean to say, Lady Glencora, that you would really advocate equality?” said Mrs. Bonteen.
“I do mean to say so, Mrs. Bonteen. And I mean to go further, and to tell you that you are no Liberal at heart unless you do so likewise; unless that is the basis of your political aspirations.”
“Pray let me speak for myself, Lady Glencora.”
“By no means—not when you are criticising me and my politics. Do you not wish to make the lower orders comfortable?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bonteen.
“And educated, and happy and good?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“To make them as comfortable and as good as yourself?”
“Better if possible.”
“And I’m sure you wish to make yourself as good and as comfortable as anybody else—as those above you, if anybody is above you? You will admit that?”
“Yes;—if I understand you.”
“Then you have admitted everything, and are an advocate for general equality—just as Mr. Monk is, and as I
