Lady Laura, when she was left alone, at once reverted to the tone in which Phineas Finn had answered her remarks about Miss Effingham.  Phineas was very ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart almost upon his sleeve.  “Can it be possible that he cares for her himself?” That was the nature of Lady Laura’s first question to herself upon the matter.  And in asking herself that question, she thought nothing of the disparity in rank or fortune between Phineas Finn and Violet Effingham.  Nor did it occur to her as at all improbable that Violet might accept the love of him who had so lately been her own lover.  But the idea grated against her wishes on two sides.  She was most anxious that Violet should ultimately become her brother’s wife,—­and she could not be pleased that Phineas should be able to love any woman.

I must beg my readers not to be carried away by those last words into any erroneous conclusion.  They must not suppose that Lady Laura Kennedy, the lately married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the young man who had loved her.  Though she had probably thought often of Phineas Finn since her marriage, her thoughts had never been of a nature to disturb her rest.  It had never occurred to her even to think that she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence to her husband.  She would have hated herself had any such idea presented itself to her mind.  She prided herself on being a pure high-principled woman, who had kept so strong a guard upon herself as to be nearly free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other women made shipwreck of their happiness.  She took pride in this, and would then blame herself for her own pride.  But though she so blamed herself, it never occurred to her to think that to her there might be danger of such shipwreck.  She had put away from herself the idea of love when she had first perceived that Phineas had regarded her with more than friendship, and had accepted Mr. Kennedy’s offer with an assured conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her own happiness and for that of all those concerned.  She had felt the romance of the position to be sweet when Phineas had stood with her at the top of the falls of the Linter, and had told her of the hopes which he had dared to indulge.  And when at the bottom of the falls he had presumed to take her in his arms, she had forgiven him without difficulty to herself, telling herself that that would be the alpha and the omega of the romance of her life.  She had not felt herself bound to tell Mr. Kennedy of what had occurred,—­but she had felt that he could hardly have been angry even had he been told.  And she had often thought of her lover since, and of his love,—­telling herself that she too had once had a lover, never regarding her husband in that light; but her thoughts had not frightened her as guilty thoughts will do.  There had come a romance which had been pleasant, and it was gone.  It had been soon banished,—­but