“You get sick of it, I suppose.  I should.  Do you see my father often?”

“Only occasionally.  He is always very civil when I do see him.”

“He is the very pink of civility when he pleases, but the most unjust man I ever met.”

“I should not have thought that.”

“Yes, he is,” said the Earl’s son, “and all from lack of judgment to discern the truth.  He makes up his mind to a thing on insufficient proof, and then nothing will turn him.  He thinks well of you,—­would probably believe your word on any indifferent subject without thought of a doubt; but if you were to tell him that I didn’t get drunk every night of my life and spend most of my time in thrashing policemen, he would not believe you.  He would smile incredulously and make you a little bow.  I can see him do it.”

“You are too hard on him, Chiltern.”

“He has been too hard on me, I know.  Is Violet Effingham still in Grosvenor Place?”

“No; she’s with Lady Baldock.”

“That old grandmother of evil has come to town,—­has she?  Poor Violet!  When we were young together we used to have such fun about that old woman.”

“The old woman is an ally of mine now,” said Phineas.

“You make allies everywhere.  You know Violet Effingham of course?”

“Oh yes.  I know her.”

“Don’t you think her very charming?” said Lord Chiltern.

“Exceedingly charming.”

“I have asked that girl to marry me three times, and I shall never ask her again.  There is a point beyond which a man shouldn’t go.  There are many reasons why it would be a good marriage.  In the first place, her money would be serviceable.  Then it would heal matters in our family, for my father is as prejudiced in her favour as he is against me.  And I love her dearly.  I’ve loved her all my life,—­since I used to buy cakes for her.  But I shall never ask her again.”

“I would if I were you,” said Phineas,—­hardly knowing what it might be best for him to say.

“No; I never will.  But I’ll tell you what.  I shall get into some desperate scrape about her.  Of course she’ll marry, and that soon.  Then I shall make a fool of myself.  When I hear that she is engaged I shall go and quarrel with the man, and kick him,—­or get kicked.  All the world will turn against me, and I shall be called a wild beast.”

“A dog in the manger is what you should be called.”

“Exactly;—­but how is a man to help it?  If you loved a girl, could you see another man take her?” Phineas remembered of course that he had lately come through this ordeal.  “It is as though he were to come and put his hand upon me, and wanted my own heart out of me.  Though I have no property in her at all, no right to her,—­though she never gave me a word of encouragement, it is as though she were the most private thing in the world to me.  I should be half mad, and in my madness I could not master the idea that I was being robbed.  I should resent it as a personal interference.”