full courage, perfect confidence, something almost approaching to contempt for listening opponents, and nothing of fear in regard to listening friends.  He should be as a cock in his own farmyard, master of all the circumstances around him.  But Phineas Finn had not even as yet heard the sound of his own voice in that room.  At this moment, so confused was he, that he did not know where sat Mr. Mildmay, and where Mr. Daubeny.  All was confused, and there arose as it were a sound of waters in his ears, and a feeling as of a great hell around him.  “I had rather wait,” he said at last.  “Bonteen had better reply.”  Barrington Erle looked into his face, and then stepping back across the benches, told Mr. Bonteen that the opportunity was his.

Mr. Turnbull continued speaking quite long enough to give poor Phineas time for repentance; but repentance was of no use.  He had decided against himself, and his decision could not be reversed.  He would have left the House, only it seemed to him that had he done so every one would look at him.  He drew his hat down over his eyes, and remained in his place, hating Mr. Bonteen, hating Barrington Erle, hating Mr. Turnbull,—­but hating no one so much as he hated himself.  He had disgraced himself for ever and could never recover the occasion which he had lost.

Mr. Bonteen’s speech was in no way remarkable.  Mr. Monk, he said, had done the State good service by adding his wisdom and patriotism to the Cabinet.  The sort of argument which Mr. Bonteen used to prove that a man who has gained credit as a legislator should in process of time become a member of the executive, is trite and common, and was not used by Mr. Bonteen with any special force.  Mr. Bonteen was glib of tongue and possessed that familiarity with the place which poor Phineas had lacked so sorely.  There was one moment, however, which was terrible to Phineas.  As soon as Mr. Bonteen had shown the purpose for which he was on his legs, Mr. Monk looked round at Phineas, as though in reproach.  He had expected that this work should fall into the hands of one who would perform it with more warmth of heart than could be expected from Mr. Bonteen.  When Mr. Bonteen ceased, two or three other short speeches were made and members fired off their little guns.  Phineas having lost so great an opportunity, would not now consent to accept one that should be comparatively valueless.  Then there came a division.  The motion was lost by a large majority,—­by any number you might choose to name, as Phineas had said to Lord Brentford; but in that there was no triumph to the poor wretch who had failed through fear, and who was now a coward in his own esteem.