Phineas Finn

Grosvenor Place, and had seen Violet frequently. Mr. Kennedy gave periodical dinners⁠—once a week⁠—to which everybody went who could get an invitation; and Phineas had been a guest more than once. Indeed, in spite of his miseries he had taken to dining out a good deal, and was popular as an eater of dinners. He could talk when wanted, and did not talk too much, was pleasant in manners and appearance, and had already achieved a certain recognised position in London life. Of those who knew him intimately, not one in twenty were aware from whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his means of living. He was a member of Parliament, a friend of Mr. Kennedy’s, was intimate with Mr. Monk, though an Irishman did not as a rule herd with other Irishmen, and was the right sort of person to have at your house. Some people said he was a cousin of Lord Brentford’s, and others declared that he was Lord Chiltern’s earliest friend. There he was, however, with a position gained, and even Lady Baldock asked him to her house.

Lady Baldock had evenings. People went to her house, and stood about the room and on the stairs, talked to each other for half an hour, and went away. In these March days there was no crowding, but still there were always enough of people there to show that Lady Baldock was successful. Why people should have gone to Lady Baldock’s I cannot explain;⁠—but there are houses to which people go without any reason. Phineas received a little card asking him to go, and he always went.

“I think you like my friend, Mr. Finn,” Lady Laura said to Miss Effingham, after the first of these evenings.

“Yes, I do. I like him decidedly.”

“So do I. I should hardly have thought that you would have taken a fancy to him.”

“I hardly know what you call taking a fancy,” said Violet. “I am not quite sure I like to be told that I have taken a fancy for a young man.”

“I mean no offence, my dear.”

“Of course you don’t. But, to speak truth, I think I have rather taken a fancy to him. There is just enough of him, but not too much. I don’t mean materially⁠—in regard to his inches; but as to his mental belongings. I hate a stupid man who can’t talk to me, and I hate a clever man who talks me down. I don’t like a man who is too lazy to make any effort to shine; but I particularly dislike the man who is always striving for effect. I abominate a humble man, but yet I love to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and youth, and all that kind of thing.”

“You want to be flattered without plain flattery.”

“Of course I do. A man who would tell me that I am pretty, unless he is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. But a man who can’t show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it, is a lout. Now in all those matters, your friend, Mr. Finn, seems to know what he is about. In other words, he makes himself pleasant, and, therefore, one is glad to see him.”

“I suppose you do not mean to fall in love with him?”

“Not that I know of, my dear. But when I do, I’ll be sure to give you notice.”

I fear that there was more of earnestness in Lady Laura’s last question than Miss Effingham had supposed. She had declared to herself over and over again that she had never been in love with Phineas Finn. She had acknowledged to herself, before Mr. Kennedy had asked her hand in marriage, that there had been danger⁠—that she could have learned to love the man if such love would not have been ruinous to her⁠—that the romance of such a passion would have been pleasant to her. She had gone farther than this, and had said to herself that she would have given way to that romance, and would have been ready to accept such love if offered to her, had she not put it out of her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity to her brother. Then she had thrust the thing aside, and had clearly understood⁠—she thought that she had clearly understood⁠—that life for her must be a matter of business. Was it not the case with nine out of every ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of romance? Of course she could not marry Mr. Finn, knowing, as she did, that neither of them had a shilling. Of all men in the world she esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be his wife. Had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she would not have gone to Loughlinter. Having put aside all romance as unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as Mr. Kennedy’s wife. She would teach herself to love him. Nay⁠—she had taught herself to love him. She was at any rate so sure of her own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the confidence he placed in her. And yet there was something sore within her when she thought that Phineas Finn was fond of Violet Effingham.

It was Lady Baldock’s second evening, and Phineas came to the house at about eleven o’clock. At this time he had encountered a second and a third interview with Mr. Clarkson, and had already failed in obtaining any word of comfort from Laurence Fitzgibbon about the bill. It was clear enough now that Laurence felt that they were both made safe by their privilege, and that Mr. Clarkson should be treated as you treat the