“He is odd,” said Phineas; “but he is an excellent fellow,—­whom his father altogether misunderstands.”

“Exactly,—­just so; I am so glad to hear you say that,—­you who have never had the misfortune to have anything to do with a bad set.  Why don’t you tell Lord Brentford?  Lord Brentford would listen to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes;—­of course he would,—­for you are just the link that is wanting.  You are Chiltern’s intimate friend, and you are also the friend of big-wigs and Cabinet Ministers.”

“Lord Brentford would put me down at once if I spoke to him on such a subject.”

“I am sure he would not.  You are too big to be put down, and no man can really dislike to hear his son well spoken of by those who are well spoken of themselves.  Won’t you try, Mr. Finn?” Phineas said that he would think of it,—­that he would try if any fit opportunity could be found.  “Of course you know how intimate I have been with the Standishes,” said Violet; “that Laura is to me a sister, and that Oswald used to be almost a brother.”

“Why do not you speak to Lord Brentford;—­you who are his favourite?”

“There are reasons, Mr. Finn.  Besides, how can any girl come forward and say that she knows the disposition of any man?  You can live with Lord Chiltern, and see what he is made of, and know his thoughts, and learn what is good in him, and also what is bad.  After all, how is any girl really to know anything of a man’s life?”

“If I can do anything, Miss Effingham, I will,” said Phineas.

“And then we shall all of us be so grateful to you,” said Violet, with her sweetest smile.

Phineas, retreating from this conversation, stood for a while alone, thinking of it.  Had she spoken thus of Lord Chiltern because she did love him or because she did not?  And the sweet commendations which had fallen from her lips upon him,—­him, Phineas Finn,—­were they compatible with anything like a growing partiality for himself, or were they incompatible with any such feeling?  Had he most reason to be comforted or to be discomfited by what had taken place?  It seemed hardly possible to his imagination that Violet Effingham should love such a nobody as he.  And yet he had had fair evidence that one standing as high in the world as Violet Effingham would fain have loved him could she have followed the dictates of her heart.  He had trembled when he had first resolved to declare his passion to Lady Laura,—­fearing that she would scorn him as being presumptuous.  But there had been no cause for such fear as that.  He had declared his love, and she had not thought him to be presumptuous.  That now was ages ago,—­eight months since; and Lady Laura had become a married woman.  Since he had become so warmly alive to the charms of Violet Effingham he had determined, with stern propriety, that a passion for a married woman was disgraceful.  Such love was in itself a sin, even though it was